


A Truly Intelligent Wizard

by Sherlockian_nonsequitur



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Marauder's Era, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:06:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlockian_nonsequitur/pseuds/Sherlockian_nonsequitur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hi.” John said dumbly, breaking the silence. The boy arched an eyebrow at him, not taking his eyes away. “Sorry, it’s just we haven’t actually been properly introduced yet.” He explained, stretching forth his hand. </p><p>The boy eyed his gesture warily and kept his hands in his lap. John brought back his hand and crossed his arms. “You know, you’re being extremely rude. I don’t even know your name and we’ve been sitting here for-” he glanced at his watch, “nearly an hour.” He eyed the lanky boy and clenched his jaw, determined to get an answer.</p><p>The boy sighed and looked away, laying his back down on the seat and sticking his legs into the air to rest on the train's windowpane. “Sherlock Holmes,” he muttered, withdrawing his wand from his seat and fiddling with it between his long fingers. </p><p>“What?” John asked, his attention drawn to the same wand. It was long and dark, much thinner than his and extremely flexible as the boy bent and twiddled it. </p><p>“My. Name. Is. Sherlock. Holmes.” He muttered irritatedly. </p><p>“Oh.” John responded stupidly. It was an odd name, but then again, the boy was also very strange. The name was fitting for this enigmatic stranger he found himself sitting across from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Enigmatic Beginning

John awkwardly made his way through the station, feeling extremely out of place. It didn’t help that he was travelling alone—his mom only had enough time to drop him off before she had to return to work—but the fact that he was pushing a heavy cart overflowing with books, clothing, and supplies topped off with a large suitcase made everything immensely more embarrassing for him. He was glad that he didn’t have any animals with him, though the letter had said that he could choose to bring an owl, cat, or a frog. He was a bit overwhelmed as he tried to make his way through the crowds, his cart bumping into dozens of people who glared at him for the obtrusion. He anxiously looked at the signs, passing by platform 9 and hopefully headed towards nine and three quarters. He continued forwards, thinking that he might have passed it, when overhead he saw platform 10.

 

He muttered under his breath, upset that he would have to turn around and make his way back, knowing that he must have passed it. He apologized as he bumped into a few people in his attempts to turn around against the flow and force his way back the way he came. His eye caught a lone boy sitting beside a tall brick column calmly poking the wall with a stick. He looked to be about his age, eleven or twelve, with dark hair that hung in curls around his head, his skin extremely pale with wide eyes and high cheekbones. His body was noticeably very slim as he sat cross legged, his sole attention focused on the wall in front of him.

 

Curious, John ambled his way closer to the boy, slowly easing his cart through the crowd of people into an empty opening surrounding the boy. The boy didn’t even glance back though John knew the noise he had made upon his entrance was monumental. Instead, he just pressed his stick closer to the wall.

 

John blinked in surprise as the stick suddenly melted into the wall like butter, completely disappearing all the way up to the hilt, merely inches from the boy’s fingers. The dark haired boy withdrew the stick and peered at it curiously as he reached into his trouser pockets with his hand. He pulled out a coin from his pocket and turned his attention back to the wall, and then with a flick of his wrist he tossed the coin at the same place where his stick had melted through moments before. With a clink the coin made contact with the bricks, not sinking in like the stick had, and then fell to rattle against the floor.

 

The boy looked disappointed as he picked up the coin and focused intently before tossing it again, only to the same result. John was stunned, unsure if he had imagined the stick melting through the wall or not. Then again, he had just been recently told that he was a wizard, so he supposed that anything was possible. With a start he suddenly realized that the stick the boy was holding was a wand. He cursed himself for his stupidity, though he had only just gotten his own wand a week before he really should have figured it out sooner. The strange boy in front of the wall must be a wizard, maybe he was even going to the same school as he was. If so, he would probably know where platform nine and three-quarters was.

 

John edged forwards, leaving his cart behind him as he approached the boy who was still tossing his coin at the wall, each time the coin clinking to the floor.

 

“S’cuse me,” he stated hesitantly, the boy completely ignoring him. “D’you know where platform nine and three quarters is?”

 

The boy gave an insufferable, drawn out sigh and scooped off the coin from the floor before ambling to his feet. He disdainfully wiped off his trousers and returned his coin to his pocket before turning to face John.

“Yes,” the tall boy responded curtly, his blue and green-tinged eyes taking in John’s appearance. John wanted to cower from the close scrutiny, but instead he stood with his back straight, trying to make himself seem bigger as the dark haired boy towered over him.

 

“Could you tell me where it is?” John asked as bravely as he could, feeling extremely inadequate compared to the tall boy in front of him. Obviously the boy already knew had to use magic—he had a wand and had pressed it through a brick wall. He was also very obviously wealthy; his starched white shirt buttoned up to his chin, a loose silver tie hanging loosely around his neck. His suit pants were as black as his hair and he had on leather dress shoes as well, his outfit practically screaming his affluence.

 

In comparison John was wearing old hand-me-downs from garage sales and cheap retail stores, his shoes scuffed and falling apart from wear. He was also several inches shorter than the boy, and completely oblivious as to where the platform could possibly be. Regardless of his inferiority John stubbornly stood as proud as he could, his chest puffed out in determination.

 

The boy raised an eyebrow at him, his long fingers curling around the wand he held in his hand. He then glanced over towards John’s cart, his eyes expertly skimming over everything. “I could,” he responded, his voice surprisingly deep, “though I’d rather not.”

 

It took John a moment to realize that he had answered his question, and once he did he bristled in anger. “Why not?” he asked, infuriated with the boy’s obvious display of disdain towards him.

 

The boy smirked in response, making John to clench his hands in frustration. “I could just show you,” he stated, eyeing John’s clenched fists.

 

“Oh,” John replied dumbly, quickly diffusing all of his anger. He knew that he angered much too easily and was embarrassed by his heated reaction; he was not making a great first impression.

 

“Bring your cart,” the boy said before promptly turning away from him to face the wall once more. He walked forwards, about to crash into the wall, when he suddenly passed through the bricks and disappeared. John gaped at the now empty space the boy had once inhabited, melting through the wall just like his wand had. He glanced all around him, looking to see if anyone had noticed the sudden disappearance of the boy that had been there moments before, but the people continued to pass by—completely oblivious.

 

Stunned, John walked back to his cart and gripped the handle tightly. Did the boy expect him to go walking into the wall after him, cart and all? Certainly he would just crash and bring even more unwanted attention to himself. However, he was a wizard now, and he just witnessed the boy pass through the wall, so maybe he could too. He stared at the brick wall in determination.

He was a wizard now, he repeated to himself, and he was going to prove that fact by passing through a brick wall. He took in a deep breath of air and moved forwards into a jog, the wall frightening close. He sprinted the last bit and shut his eyes tight, expecting to suddenly slam headfirst into the harsh bricks.

 

Instead, he felt nothing. Knowing that he must have made it through the wall by now, he opened his eyes to look around and came to a sudden halt—his surroundings completely different. He appeared to be in the same train station, but the structure was the only similarity. A gleaming train rested proudly on the tracks, its engine letting out a big plume of smoke. People wearing a mix between robes and regular clothes milled about and he saw several kids his age pushing around identical looking carts. He searched the crowds for the tall boy he had seen earlier, but he was nowhere in sight.

 

He began making his way where he saw several of his fellow students milling about entrance of the train, his eyes opened wide as he watched the many witches and wizards around him. He felt as completely out of his league as when he had taken his mother with him to go shopping in the strange world beyond the Leaky Cauldron.

 

His mother had blanched and grown queasy at the sight of so much magic around her as she had never seen it before—being a muggle, and had grown tight lipped as she realized that they would be able to purchase a very few amount of supplies after trading in her meager amount of muggle money for an equally small amount of magical currency. Luckily she had been able to sign a paper that would get the school to fund for books and supplies, but she still had to pay for his robes and wand, leaving John aware of how destitute they really were.

 

He had chosen the cheapest robes he could find in order to help ease his mother’s burden, which hadn’t gone unnoticed as she watched him with weary eyes but remaining silent on his choice. After getting all of the supplies they needed for school; books, parchment, quills (seriously, do the wizards still live in the seventeenth century or something?) their last stop was to Ollivander’s for wands.

 

Once John had arrived into the shop the old man—Ollivander himself—his white hair sticking out crazily on all ends, inspected him closely before scurrying into the back and returning carrying a dusty box. He placed it on the desk in front of him and tenderly lifted the lid to reveal a honey brown wand, stout and short but absolutely gleaming. John had fallen in love in sight, reveling in the fact that he was going to get his own wand. As soon as he picked up the polished wood a warmth spread through his hand up his arm as the wand maker smiled appreciatively.

 

“Eight inches, birch wood, single strand of unicorn hair, and extremely durable with little flexibility,” the old man had stated; John’s taking in the information as his attention remained riveted on the beautiful piece of wood he held in between his fingers. He continued to gleam in admiration towards his new wand as his mother quietly conversed with Ollivander, her skin growing even paler as she took in the amount. He had seen her reaction, but he stubbornly refused to part with his wand though he knew that it probably cost more than his mom was willing, or even capable, of giving. She had sullenly handed over the last of her coins, and though they wouldn’t be able to get some of that magical ice cream she had promised or buy anything else while they were there, John knew that his wand was worth the cost.

 

He had kept his wand at his side for the rest of the week, openly admiring it by sliding his fingers over the smooth and polished length several times throughout the days. Even now his wand was secure in his back pocket as he made his way towards the train, taking out his heavy baggage from his cart and stepping onto the shining black and red painted train.

 

He made his way down the narrow hallways and passed by countless compartments filled with students. He dragged his heavy suitcase behind him, stopping to peer into the doors as he searched for an open seat.

 

He must not have realized how late he was when he saw that most of the train was full. He suddenly heard the scream of the engine’s whistle announcing its approaching departure; he glanced at his watch and saw that it was 10:58 and the bus was going to leave in two minutes. He picked up his pace, anxiously looking into the filled compartments and finding himself all the way at the back of the train.

 

He glanced into a compartment that had three boys in it—leaving room for one more—each of them appeared to be his age and they were all laughing and chatting to each other. He knew that he would probably be accepted into their group, but something told him to keep going on. Following his instincts and figuring that if he didn’t find another room he could just double back, he continued forwards to look into the very last compartment on the train.

 

At first he thought it was completely empty, until he peered closer and could see a lanky boy laying across one of the seats, an arm placed over his face, the other seat completely empty. Taking his chance, and enjoying the fact that he would have a lot more space in a room with just two people than with four, he opened the door to the compartment.

 

“Get out,” the boy stated rudely, his voice familiar. John hadn’t recognized the boy before because he was now wearing black wizarding robes, but once hearing his voice he recognized him as the boy who had passed through the wall.

 

John stubbornly stepped into the room, dragging his suitcase behind him and clinging tightly to his stack of books. He was upset that the boy had left him in the dust when it was apparent that John had no idea where to go after passing through the wall, but he was grateful that he had at least shown him how or else he would have never figured it out.

 

“I said get out!” the boy reiterated, rolling over and uncovering his face. When he caught sight of John he steeled his gaze and pursed his lips before turning away from him and curling up on his seat, facing the wall.

 

Satisfied that the boy wasn’t going to chase him out, John placed his suitcase and books on the rack above their heads and sat down in the seat across from the pale boy who was now childishly lying curled up—just in time for the train’s whistle to emanate all around them as wheels began to move across the tracks.

 

The room remained in silence as the train picked up pace, the boy ignoring him all the while. Feeling awkward and wanting to at least thank the boy for helping him onto the platform, John tried to start a conversation.

“Thanks,” John began. “For helping me out, I mean.” The boy remained silent and didn’t even acknowledge hearing him. “On the platform,” he continued, trying to get a response. Silence.

 

John turned his head out the window to stare at the smiling families who remained on the platform, waving goodbye to the Hogwarts Express. He gazed longingly, getting the foolish desire of seeing his family wave goodbye to him.

 

Of course that would never happen, his mom had to work to support herself and her two kids, his dad long since been gone out of the picture. His older sister Harriet had taken to calling herself Harry and hanging out with less than honorable people, delving into drug addictions though she was still only a teenager. They had never been close, not really, and he doubted that she would even care that he would be gone.

 

He glanced back at the boy who remained obstinately facing the wall, pretending to be asleep. John knew that he couldn’t possibly have fallen asleep yet, making him angry again because he was being so disrespectful.

 

“My name is John,” he stated, trying, and failing, to get a reaction.

 

He stared out the window once more, watching as the station faded out of sight and instead the scenery of grass expanding over rolling hills came into view. He occupied himself by staring out the window and figuring out what his new life was going to be like.

 

He had learned that he was a wizard only two months ago. A cream colored letter had suddenly flown in through the front door, and John could have sworn that he had seen an owl fly away as he peered out the window—no one who could have possibly dropped off the letter was in sight. He had read the spindly green ink and had shown it to his mom when she returned home exhausted from work, his mouth dry. She had read the letter, and instead of looking proud or astonished, she had been angry.

 

She began to curse his father vehemently, her face turning red with rage and blaming her husband for all of the problems she was now faced with. That’s when he learned that his father had secretly been a wizard—keeping the truth away from his family. John was surprised at her reaction; she hadn’t talked about his father for years, and he had never known that she had such a deep hatred for him.

 

She had continued to rant for quite some time, pacing around and shoving things off of the counter; John solemnly standing in place and watching his mother scream in frustration, unsure of what to do. Eventually she had grown tired and sank to the floor. His heart rent into two as he watched her hold her head into her hands, the letter falling from between her fingers. Then she had broken down and cried, shocking John and deeply scaring him by her bipolar reactions. She cried about losing John; the two men in her life leaving her because of magic.

 

He had tried to soothe her, sitting by her side and consolidatedly patting her shoulder, their relationship unused to physical touch. She had cried for over an hour, eventually tiring herself out and falling asleep on his shoulder. John had been utterly frightened the entire time. He had just learned that he was a wizard, explaining some of the strange things that had happened in his life, and all of the emotions he had felt at the time were so overwhelming.

 

Over the next two months, the time ever growing closer to the omnipresent date of September 1st looming over their heads—the date when John would board the Hogwarts Express and leave his mother and older sister and head into a different world—they had both grown accustomed to the idea of John being a wizard. At first his mother had abhorrently rejected the idea, but John had felt that Hogwarts was the path that he had wanted to take, so she had slowly relented and eased into the idea.

 

Their goodbye had been brief. His mother’s face was pale and listless as she planted a kiss to his head outside of the station and then turned to leave, neither of them uttering a word.

 

His attention was suddenly brought back to the present when he felt eyes on him. He turned away from the window and was stunned to see the boy sitting up cross legged in his seat and openly staring at him. John blinked in surprise—he hadn’t heard the boy get up—and instead of turning away from the intense gaze he returned it. The staring continued and the tips of John’s ears began growing warm as the time progressed.

 

“Hi,” he said dumbly, breaking the silence. The boy arched an eyebrow at him, not taking his eyes away. “Sorry, it’s just we haven’t actually been properly introduced yet,” he explained, stretching forth his hand.

 

The boy eyed his gesture warily and kept his hands in his lap. John brought back his hand and crossed his arms. “You know, you’re being extremely rude. I don’t even know your name and we’ve been sitting here for—” he glanced at his watch, “nearly an hour.” He eyed the lanky boy and clenched his jaw, determined to get an answer.

“What time is it?” the boy asked.

It was the first thing he said to him since the train started moving. “Uh,” John responded dumbly, checking his watch again.

“Just give it to me,” the boy said, outstretching his arm.

“It’s a quarter to twelve,” John said, wondering why he would have to give his watch over.

The boy persisted, opening his palm. Finally John relented, unclipping his watch from his wrist and handing it over.

The boy fiddled with the watch in his long fingers. He didn’t even look at the time, instead flipped it over and peered at it in all directions. Without warning he suddenly tossed it to John, apparently disinterested by it.

“Hey!” John shouted as he barely caught the watch. He glared at the boy as he slid it back on his wrist. “Who do you think you are?” he asked with a snarl, outraged by the boy’s behavior.

 

The boy sighed and looked away, laying his back down on the seat and sticking his legs into the air to rest on the windowpane.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he suddenly muttered, withdrawing his wand from his seat and fiddling with it between his long fingers.

 

“What?” John asked, his attention drawn to the same wand he had seen the boy press through the brick wall. It was long and dark, much thinner than his own. He was surprised at how flexible it was as the boy bent and twiddled it to the point of breaking before letting it fling back into place.

 

“My. Name. Is. Sherlock. Holmes,” the boy said, his voice full of irritation.

 

“Oh,” John responded stupidly. It was an odd name, but then again, the boy was also very strange. The name was fitting; it was as annoying and weird as the boy was.

 

“So—” John drawled, now that Sherlock had finally opened up he was determined to try to make small talk with him. “What were you doing in front of the brick wall—the platform, I mean.”

 

“Experimenting.”

 

“Experimenting what?” John asked.

 

Sherlock gave an aggrandized sigh, very similar to the first noise he had heard the boy make. “If you’re going to bother me with questions, at least make sure that they make grammatical sense.”

 

John clenched his jaw, embarrassed and upset. “What exactly were you experimenting on, and why?” he stated slowly, making sure his question was proper.

 

“I was testing the extents of the spell on the wall. It’s common knowledge that to pass through the platform you have to be moving swiftly with an intent to pass through, and if you wish to take anything with you through the passageway one must be in contact with said object.” Sherlock flicked his hair out of his eyes with the tip of his wand. “I was testing to see how slow one could move and still be able to pass through, and whether or not an object could pass through without being physically connected to a wizard.”

 

“Why would you want to know that?” John asked, incredulous.

 

Sherlock tilted his head to the side to peer at him. “Why wouldn’t I want to know? It’s fascinating—and this knowledge might prove useful in the future.”

 

John scoffed. “I don’t see how knowing whether or not a coin will pass through the brick wall will be beneficial to you in the future.”

 

Sherlock shut his eyes and rolled his head back to the neutral position. “Perhaps not,” he stated, much to John’s shock; John had expected Sherlock to retort with some type of brilliant reason why knowing everything about the platform was so pertinent. “If it doesn’t prove to be useful I’ll just delete it from my mind,” he stated, slipping his wand back into the sleeve of his robe.

 

“Delete it from your mind?!” John asked, wondering if that was something every wizard could do. If that were the case, he had quite a few things he would like to delete permanently from his memory...

 

“Hmm, yes. Do I really need to repeat myself or are you just particularly thick?” Sherlock said snidefully.

 

John bristled with rage. “I’m not thick!” he retorted. “I’m just... new to magic.”

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock drawled.

 

John felt his face flame up as he clenched his fists in anger, embarrassed that it was so apparent that he didn’t belong there.

 

“Besides,” Sherlock continued, his eyes still closed, “the way I delete my memories doesn’t require magic. Instead it is done through careful and thorough thought examination that requires intense focus.”

 

“Right, because you’re a bloody genius,” John said sarcastically, hating the way Sherlock automatically assumed to be better than him, though he didn’t outright state it. It was obvious by the way he had ignored him for nearly an entire hour and then continued to make degrading remarks towards him.

 

“Yes,” he agreed, steepling his fingers together and resting them under his chin.

 

“Oh, so you’re a bloody genius because you can forget things on command and throw coins at walls. How original,” John insulted, feeling like he had finally gotten the upper hand on their conversation.

 

Sherlock swiftly sat up in his seat, his nostrils flaring as he glared at John. “You recently learned that you were a wizard, growing up in a muggle family your entire life,” he began to rant, his voice coming out low and extremely rapid. “You play rugby and though you are short and slight in stature you have proven yourself to be very good at it, and you have a desire to someday be a professional player—your grades at your muggle school are average but you worked hard for them in order to make your mother proud—your muggle mother spends most of her time at work, and you haven’t seen your father for years.” He paused for a quick intake of air before continuing.

“You have an older sister but you’ve never been close to her—she’s a disgrace to the family and has probably delved into addictive drugs and could possibly be lesbian. Ever since she learned that you were a wizard—while she remains a pitiable muggle—the gap between the two of you has grown even larger with resentment.” He ended with a huff, his sentences all running together as his eyes flashed.

 

John gaped at him, completely stunned. “That was incredible,” he found himself stating, though the first thing on his mind was to punch the boy’s smug looking face and possibly bruise one of those high cheekbones. He couldn’t help but to be impressed by his quick deductions, each one of his statements stabbing him with deadly accuracy.

 

Sherlock blinked in surprise, not expecting a positive reaction. “Really?” he asked tentatively, his expression almost looking remorseful.

 

“Was that magic?” John asked, staring at the boy in open wonder. It had to be magic, he thought to himself; Sherlock must have used a spell that told him his entire personal life.

 

Immediately the remorseful look completely disappeared from his face to be replaced with frustration with a twinge of hurt pride. “No,” Sherlock responded haughtily, looking offended. “I had drawn those conclusions through careful observations and deductive reasoning.” He crossed his arms over his slender chest and stared out the window, his jaw clenched.

 

“How?” John asked, wondering how anyone could possibly know that much about him without the use of magic.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I just told you—through observation and deduction. It’s really quite simple.”

 

Put off by his derogatory tone, John retorted: “Oh, yes, right, simple. If it’s so simple, you aren’t really that much of a genius then.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with brutal intensity as he glared at John. “Simple for me,” he replied menacingly.

 

John clenched his jaw. “Show me.”

 

Sherlock glared at him for a minute or two longer. “It’s apparent that you are new to the wizarding world because of the way you look around you as if you are astonished by everything. I reasoned that you are muggle born because you had no idea where the platform was, so there was no family with previous experience to tell you, though there is a slight chance that they might have gone to another wizarding school.”

 

John wrinkled his nose—he hadn’t known there were other schools besides Hogwarts.

 

Reading his expression, Sherlock continued: “Obviously not. I know that you play rugby by the state of your trainers, which are covered in grass stains that might have been due to football, but on close examination of your suitcase I noticed that you have crudely drawn a rugby ball next to some initials—which I presume to be the initials of a popular rugby team; showing that you are interested in the sport and like most eleven year old boys you aim to have a career in the sport.

 

“I could tell that your muggle grades were just average based on the state of your books; you haven’t even opened them up once—showing that you are not studious—yet they are well cared for—showing that you esteem education highly but don’t take the time to study and as a result you must have average grades.”

John glanced at his suitcase on the rack and the pile of schoolbooks next to it. They were tied together neatly, and he had done his best to keep them neat. Sherlock continued, not missing a beat.

“You arrived alone, so you only have a single parent, which I took to be your mother because I saw her kiss you farewell—and that’s not cheating, it’s merely observing. I know you have an older sister because your clothes are hand-me-downs but not from within your family as each article of clothing is from completely different geographical areas. You can’t wear your sister’s old clothes but you do have her watch, which is fine because it’s an omnisexual watch. An artifact like that must have been handed down through your family as your mother wouldn’t have enough funds to pay for something like that—so it must have been a gift to your older sister who eventually passed it on to you. You take good care of your things but the watch is scratched and scarred, showing that it belonged to someone ahead of you—your sister—whom I know must be a muggle and therefore would be jealous of your capabilities, and your talents would cause a strain in your relationship, but you still wear her watch so her resentment must not be anything new and you’ve grown accustomed to it.” He finally finished his explanation, his expression once again looking smug.

 

John didn’t know what to think. He was completely dumbfounded. He sat in silence for a moment or two. Now that Sherlock explained his reasoning behind his deductions, it really did sound simple.

“How did you know that my sister does drugs or might play for the other team?” John finally managed to ask.

 

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and shrugged. “You’ve grown up mostly alone, obvious by the way that you were willing to go through the train station without any companion, so your sister must not have been around much. She must not be too many years older than you, so she must have forced herself away from the house or was otherwise estranged by her mother, probably resulting from unsavory habits and poor company. I merely guessed her sexual tendencies from your watch, though I must say that I went out on a limb on that one.”

 

“My watch?” John asked, dumbfounded.

 

“So I was right? She’s a dyke?” Sherlock asked eagerly, steepling his hands beneath his chin.

 

“Um, yeah,” John affirmed though he was slightly affronted by his insulting term. “But how could you tell from my watch?”

 

A smug smile spread over Sherlock’s bow like lips. “It’s omnisexual,” he stated proudly.

 

John chuckled, incredulous. “That was... amazing.”

 

\----------

 

Sherlock exited the train, noticing that John was following him close behind pulling on his robes awkwardly—obviously unaccustomed to the strange material. He stepped to the side, his eyes following the mass of the older year students heading towards the carriages, the rest of the first years huddling together for warmth and unsure of where to go. The night was almost completely pitch black besides the feeble light from the lanterns that illuminated the steam that floated around their mouths.

He and John stood alone, their own private island as the rest of the students gave them a wide birth. John looked uncomfortable by the lack of interaction but the wait was a short one before a short old man came walking up to the first years, holding a bright lantern over his balding head.

 

“First y’rs, fullow me,” the man growled, making Sherlock question why a man who appeared so menacing was the one sent out to bring the first years to the castle.

 

The man hobbled away as the first years began to tentatively follow him; Sherlock waited before falling into the back of the line, John remaining at his side.

 

He was curious as to why John was sticking with him; he seemed like the person who would be able to make with new people quite easily. He supposed that the reason why the muggle boy had become attached to him was because Sherlock was the first person he had met. Sherlock was certain that John would eventually float away from him once he made his own friends, just as anyone who had ever associated with Sherlock had done before him.

 

Sherlock knew that he was insufferable and hard to get along with, and quite frankly he was amazed that John had managed to stay in the same compartment with him for their entire trip. He was certain that John would finally storm away and leave him to his privacy after he had made his long list of deductions towards him, but he was completely surprised when John had uttered praise instead.

 

The rest of the journey had actually been very pleasant, and though John had nowhere near the name mental capabilities Sherlock was capable of; he was still able to make witty jokes and talk openly to him. He had liked the interaction even though he would have preferred the silence if he had been left alone.

 

They made their way to the edge of the lake as the students began filing into boats, the man holding the lantern standing to the side and making sure that they all boarded safely. As the boats filled up Sherlock realized to his dismay that they would have to share a boat with other students; the only option between a boat with two boys or the one the man was obviously saving for himself.

 

Sherlock began making his way to the older man’s boat before John pulled on his sleeve and led him to the one with the students. Sherlock obliged but only because John wouldn’t relinquish his grip. John pushed him into the boat and followed behind, barely taking his seat before the boat shot forwards across the lake.

 

John began to make small talk with the other boys; the only thing Sherlock paid attention to was their names (Mike Stamford and Bill Murray) before entirely blocking them out and instead began peering across the lake with interest.

 

Once they neared the castle John’s expression turned to open admiration at sight of the massive school. Sherlock smirked at his childlike reaction before glancing towards the castle in interest to see what was so outstanding by the sight to make John appear so astonished. It appeared to be a regular looking castle, nothing out of the ordinary, and yet it held John’s attention so ravishingly that he had stopped talking halfway through his sentence. Sherlock had only been partially paying attention to the conversation the three boys were having, but he doubted they minded the pause as they continued chatting, John oblivious to their conversation as he continued to stare in open wonder towards the school.

 

\----------

 

 

Though Celeste was millions of years old and considered herself to have “seen it all, done it all, been it all,” she had never once been in a situation such as this. She was surrounded by eleven-year-olds, each of them jostling each other and talking excitedly, their faces bright and eager. That in itself wasn’t anything new; the thing that surprised her the most was that she was one of them. She never remembered being a child. She had always looked the same; her age indecipherable—anywhere from her early thirties to her late forties—tall, blonde, and beautiful. She had occasionally changed her appearance through the use of disguises or the clever use of polyjuice potion, but none of them were permanent.

 

She was a child. What an odd thought. She had had a year to grow accustomed to the fact, realizing that she also aged like any regular child and continued to grow. She assumed her age to be about eleven, and since she was stuck in this form she might as well grow up along with the rest of the world. It was strange; moving along with the world instead of standing still and watching as it moved all around her.

 

The students continued to chat animatedly as they waited in the large hallway inside of Hogwarts. She knew the drill; soon one of the professors would come out and line them up alphabetically and then they would file into the great hall to have the sorting hat sort them among the four houses. As she peered around the children—she shouldn’t think of them like that, she chided herself as she was now one of them—she noticed an oddity.

Most of the new students were eager and bubbling with excitement as they wondered which house they would be sorted in, but off in the corner there was one boy who stood apart, taking in his surroundings with hooded eyes. He had long, pitch black hair that curled over his forehead, accentuating his naturally pale skin. His body was slender and tall, his robes tailored to his slight frame.

 

At his side there was a short blonde boy who was chatting animatedly with a few students nearby, the rest of them pointedly ignoring the quiet, dark-haired boy. The blonde, however, seemed more than happy to be standing by his silent companion as he attempted to include him into his conversation. Despite his efforts the tall boy completely ignored them as his eyes expertly scanned the rest of the students. Suddenly his gaze caught hers, his eyes piercing. Celeste felt that she should probably look away as she had been caught staring, but instead she stubbornly kept her gaze on him.

 

She figured that his family must be rather wealthy, as his robes were well tailored to his body and made of fine materials. He was obviously intelligent, more so than the rest of the students that surrounded her. His expression changed slightly, showing that he was intrigued by her stubbornness. Celeste felt that their staring contest could have gone on for quite possibly a very long time until she was interrupted by the opening of the great hall’s doors. She broke their connection as she glanced forwards to look at the professor who passed through the doors.

 

Minerva McGonagall stepped into the hall and clapped her hands together briskly. The sight of her took Celeste aback; she had known that Minerva was teaching at Hogwarts but the idea hadn’t quite sunk in until she saw her standing in front of her. She suddenly got the irrational fear that she would be recognized, but she quickly sent the thought away as she remembered that she was a child now. Certainly Minerva would never get the inclination to believe that her previous lover (thirty years previous, to be exact) would suddenly appear at the school where she taught at—as a student.

 

Her relationship with Minerva was a brief affair; one that they both ended still feeling good will towards each other. They had still kept in touch; though with nothing more than the occasional letter throughout the years. Celeste wasn’t one to become romantically engaged with a person often; she always found the eventual loss so heartbreaking and debilitating, and their ability to end their relationship with relative ease and still feel warm towards each other was better than she could have ever hoped for.

 

“Now I need you all to line up in alphabetical order please,” Minerva began over the din in the room. “Please be quiet and quick about it, and no pushing.” Her voice was shrill and demanding, and so old. When Celeste had seen Minerva last she was a robust young woman; full of life and containing a ravishingly quick Scottish temper. Now she appeared to be an irascible, despotic old woman by the tone of her voice and brisk demeanor. It was strange—seeing her dear friend so old while she herself was now so young.

 

The students began bustling and pushing each other as a line slowly began to form. Celeste remained near the front, her name beginning with an “H,” as she silently filed behind a Harris and in front of an Ivans. The line was nearly complete as Minerva’s stern eyes examined the students in turn, Celeste quickly turning her head away upon her strict inspection.

 

“You there,” Minerva said irritably as she pointed at the corner of the room, “Please find your place in line.” Celeste reminded herself that she should probably start referring Minerva as “Professor McGonagall” now, as she had no right to call her by her first name. She would have to treat all of the other professors with the same amount of respect—even though technically she was much older and more powerful than all of them combined. However, she was a child now. She knew she wasn’t as physically powerful as she was before, and though her magical capabilities remained the same she knew that she’d have to keep them to a minimum in order to keep from arousing suspicion.

 

She was taken aback when the boy whom she had held in a staring contest with slinked into place in front of her, though he hadn’t asked her name and should have no idea where he fit in. Minerva—Professor McGonagall—hadn’t pointed out where he should go, and Celeste hadn’t uttered a single word. He remained in his place, and Celeste wondered if he had gotten his place correct.

 

Satisfied that everything was now orderly enough to proceed, Professor McGonagall burst open the double doors to the great hall with a flick of her wand. A cacophony of noises swallowed them up as they made their way into the great hall. Candles floated on seemingly invisible strings below the star lit sky—which Celeste knew was actually just a rather intelligent spell designed to appear as the sky above when in reality there was a roof covering their heads. Her fellow first years looked all around them in open wonder as they took in all of the flickering lights and the four long house tables that extended towards the head table where the professors sat.

 

While Celeste skimmed her surroundings and applied them to memory; she also kept a careful watch on the back of the lanky boy’s head, noting the fact that he seemed entirely disinterested with the powerful magic displayed all around him. He slowly swiveled his head back in forth, not in wonder, but instead in careful contemplation as he took in all of the facts around him. He had rather amazing hair, Celeste found herself thinking. Thick black curls shone against the candlelight.

 

Their line came to a halt as the first students reached the end of the long tables. They stood still in between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, the Slytherin and Gryffindor tables on opposite sides of the room. She looked out among the sea of faces as the students sitting at their tables looked over the fresh first years with interest, their tables full of empty golden goblets and plates as the food wouldn’t be served until the end of the sorting.

 

Between the four tables and the professor’s table there was an open space where a single stool stood in the center, a dusty old wizard’s hat sitting forlornly on top of the stool. The hat suddenly began moving on its own, a face forming in the material as it began to sing, a large crease moving up and down as its mouth. It sang a strange, lilting tune about welcoming the new students and about the history of Hogwarts, and while most of the first year students around her were surprised to be seeing a singing hat, she was pleased to see that the boy in front of her scoffed and crossed his arms in impatience. Celeste smirked at his adverse reaction and waited patiently for the song to end.

 

Once the song was finally over Professor McGonagall walked up to stand by the now blessedly silent hat. She began to unroll an overly long piece of parchment as her shrill voice echoed around the room.

“When I call your name,” she began, her eyes piercing through the line of the first years, “you will come forth and sit on the stool and be sorted into your houses.” Quick to the point she then examined her roll of parchment and announced the first name: “Avery Adams.”

 

The first boy in line anxiously made his way towards the stool, McGonagall holding the sorting hat in the air next to it.

“Hufflepuff,” the boy in front of her muttered under his breath. Celeste was impressed; that was exactly the same assumption she made as well for the boy.

 

“Obviously,” Celeste said with a smile. The boy jerked around to look at her, his eyes flashing.  
“He’s continually glancing towards the Hufflepuff table—” Celeste continued, “most likely looking for the approval of a sibling, and as most families get sorted into the same house he’ll most likely join his older brother.”

 

“Students don’t always get placed into the same houses as their families,” he retorted, even though his previous statement placed the student in the same house. “I made my deductions based on observation and not on previous knowledge of his family line.” He sneered down at her, as he was at least a good six inches taller than her.

 

“What makes you believe that I had this previous knowledge?” Celeste replied, crossing her arms over her chest. She didn’t know any of these students, and frankly the only people she knew in the room were Professor McGonagall and several of the other professors, though they wouldn’t recognize her, obviously.

 

“You distinctly said ‘his brother,’ alluding to the fact that you already knew his relations,” he answered, copying her movement and folding his arms as well. He raised a dark eyebrow, as if to say “checkmate.” His face was very regal, with startling sharp and high cheekbones, his forehead high and proud though mostly obscured by the dark ringlets of his hair. Celeste was impressed by his vocabulary and the way he processed information, especially for a mere eleven year old.

 

“For your information, I’ve never seen the boy before and neither do I know any of the students here at Hogwarts. I merely observed by following his gaze and seeing an older boy who had some of the same facial structures as him—”

 

She was interrupted by the sorting hat’s voice ringing out through the hall: “Hufflepuff!” The two of them glanced forwards as the Hufflepuff table began clapping and cheering. The boy excitedly made his way to the table, his face beaming. An older boy slapped the first year on the back and scooted over for him to sit next to him, the two of them looking very much like they could be related.

 

The boy glanced back at her and she gave him a smug smile as if to say, “See? Aren’t I clever?” as McGonagall’s voice rang out through the hall: “Susan Appleby.” He turned away from her, his sharp eyes taking in the new victim to his observations.

 

“Slytherin,” they both said simultaneously. Again Celeste was surprised at how accurate he was; he certainly was very intelligent if he was able to figure out a person’s personality traits just by their looks.

He haughtily looked back at her. “How did you guess that one? She’s obviously a single child so you can’t rely on past lineage unless you know her family line.” He began to smile smugly, daring her to refute his claim or question how he knew she was a single child.

 

Celeste smirked, impressed that he was also able to tell that fact, not needing to question him on how he came to his conclusion. Instead she just began to explain how she figured which house she’d be in. “Look at her robes,” she said as she watched the girl make her way up to the solitary stool. “They’re very well kept and made of expensive material; born into wealth and most likely pureblood, and the fact that she’s openly glaring at the Gryffindor table and stealing appraising glances towards the Slytherin side of the room shows which house she’d prefer to be in.”

 

“Slytherin!” The hat shouted as the girl merrily bounced up and began to walk towards the far table, their cheers much more refined than the previous cheering done by the Hufflepuffs.

 

The boy gave her an appraising glance though he was still visibly upset that he wasn’t the only one who could determine the sorting of each student. The next student was called up, and this time he gave his deductions for why the student would be placed into Gryffindor house. His deductions were very methodical and Celeste was left reveling once more at how such a young person could be as exceedingly bright as the tall boy ahead of her.

 

They continued to banter back and forth as the line progressed and the students were sorted into their respective houses, the two of them attempting to one up the other. Each one of their guesses were correct and Celeste began to thoroughly enjoy herself.

 

Finally it was his turn, McGonagall calling out his name in her shrill, old woman’s voice: “Sherlock Holmes!” Before walking up he glanced back at her, waiting to hear her guess.

 

So that’s his name, Celeste thought to herself. It was unique and original and fitting for the strange boy genius. She knew that he would most likely end up in Ravenclaw due to his remarkable and extremely accurate deductions; however, she wanted to do something that he wouldn’t expect, as he no doubt expected her to voice her respect and acclaim by suiting him with the brightest students. “Slytherin,” she said instead with a smile and a wink.

 

He looked completely taken aback as he blinked his eyes rapidly. He peered at her for a moment in confusion before swiftly turning and walking up to the sorting hat. As he took his place on the stool his eyes connected with hers once more, his irises pale with a tint of green in them. As McGonagall placed the sorting hat on his head he furrowed his brow and glared, obstinate that he was going to prove her wrong. His jaw clenched in concentration until the hat finally shouted “Ravenclaw!” out to the room. He stood as McGonagall snatched the hat off his head, his expression smug as he headed towards the politely applauding Ravenclaw table.

 

Celeste chuckled to herself, pleased to see that he had indeed gone into Ravenclaw as she had expected. When she had first arrived she was uncertain of which house she wanted to be in, as she was certain that she would feel at home in any of them. However, now that she was here, she desperately wanted to be in the same house as the enigmatically intelligent Sherlock Holmes.

 

McGonagall called out her name: “Celeste Honore,” and Celeste began making her way up to the stool, her eyes focused on Minerva’s reaction. When they had been together Celeste’s name had been different—Jane Harris—so she knew that McGonagall shouldn’t be able to recognize her based on her name. The professor watched her sternly as she approached, though Celeste realized that it was merely her signature look for every student and that she was receiving no different treatment.

 

She hopped down on the seat, shouting “Ravenclaw!” inside of her mind. She really didn’t need the sorting hat drifting through her memories and would prefer to just get it over with. The hat barely even touched her head as it shouted out her house to the room. She jumped up with a wide smile as her eyes immediately made contact with Sherlock’s, who was staring at her with a bemused smirk, apparently due to him making the correct assumption. She skipped to his side as the Ravenclaw table politely clapped. She sat down at the empty space next to him and politely nodded her head towards the other students at the table.

 

“You had guessed wrong,” he stated, his eyes focused on the next student who had been called.

 

Celeste followed his gaze. “Hufflepuff,” she observed as he nodded briskly in accordance. She looked back at him. “Hmm, I don’t think so,” she said slyly as she rested her finger on her bottom lip.

 

He focused his gaze entirely on her as though he were trying to determine her thoughts.

 

“You’ve had family in Slytherin, haven’t you?” Celeste asked coyly, tilting her head slightly to the side, her long blonde hair spilling over her shoulder.

 

His shoulders tensed as he clamped his jaw tight, surprised at her deduction but staying quiet.

 

“Everyone in your family expects you to follow in their footsteps, but you just proved them all wrong, didn’t you?”

 

He sat completely still in his seat, not even looking up when “Hufflepluff!” clearly rang throughout the room from the sorting hat.

 

Celeste judged his reactions to her statements and began to fill in the details. “You’ve had an older sibling in Slytherin who did really well. Followed all of the rules- probably a prefect.”

 

Sherlock relaxed his expression, determined not to give anything more away. Celeste glanced away from him to sneak a peek at the Slytherin table behind them and on the opposite side of the hall. After skimming through their faces she turned back to face Sherlock. “He’s not here, so he’s obviously graduated. At least seven years your senior, so the two of you aren’t very close.”

 

“Ravenclaw,” he stated, switching the subject, his eyes following the next student as she walked to the stool.

 

Celeste followed his gaze and nodded her affirmation as she watched the petite girl with glasses much too large for her face head up to front.

 

“So, am I right?” Celeste asked as she turned back to face silent Ravenclaw boy. 

 

He acknowledged her with a cold stare before rambling off his own conclusions about her. “You have no friends or relations here at Hogwarts, most likely an only child, and as your name is French I would presume that the school that you would most likely be suited for is Beauxbatons. You don’t have an accent so you must have lived in the U.K for most of your life, and being geographically closer to Hogwarts you chose to go to this school instead.”

 

Celeste pursed her lips shut as she contemplated how to respond. He was wrong on all accounts, as she had no parents and her name was just an alias, but he had guessed everything that she had put herself out to be correctly. Her name was French and the papers she had forged claimed that she lived with her reclusive mother in a quiet cottage in a small village in England.

“Touche.” She finally responded, satisfied that they had both deducted enough about each other for the time being. She turned back to watch the girl on the stool as the sorting hat declared “Ravenclaw!” loudly. She began clapping politely along with the other students at her table, noting that Sherlock kept his hands unmoving on the table as his eyes scanned the line of the rest of the first years.

 

“Slytherin.” He stated, peering at the next boy in line.

 

Realizing that their little deductions on each other was over, Celeste looked at the next contestant. “Gryffindor,” Celeste added, nodding to the second boy in line.

 

“Hufflepuff,” he continued, sounding bored. They moved down the list, switching back and forth as they both made their own deductions. She was very pleased in her choice of choosing Ravenclaw as her house, knowing that she would be in every class with Sherlock Holmes and his intelligent mind.

 

At the very end of the line they finally disagreed on which house the student would enter. It was the blonde boy that Celeste had seen standing next to Sherlock earlier; he was short and stocky, his face bright and eager as he fidgeted in line, waiting for his turn. Obviously muggle born, Celeste thought to herself—the only person in his family to exhibit magical capabilities. “Hufflepuff,” she stated as it was her turn to make a guess.

 

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Gryffindor,” he countered sharply. They looked at each other, both stunned that they had reached different conclusions.

 

“You sat with him on the bus, didn’t you?” Celeste asked, wondering if perhaps he had the upper hand on this one because he had actually spent time with their subject.

 

He hummed in acknowledgement, watching as the next person in line was called to their house—they had guessed correctly once again.

 

“I suppose that does make him very brave...” Celeste mused sarcastically. He rolled his eyes at her remark, determined to stay quiet on the subject.

 

The boy glanced towards them, his blue eyes resting on Sherlock for a moment before flicking towards Celeste. She smiled at him and he looked away embarrassed. “He seems very loyal for only just meeting you today—very apt towards Hufflepuff.” Celeste stated, trying to win him over.

 

Sherlock remained silent, determined for the sorting hat to speak for itself. Celeste sighed, knowing that Sherlock wasn’t going to explain his reasoning until he was proven right.

 

As the line slowly moved forwards they occupied themselves making observations about their fellow students, talking quietly to each other as they pointed out the habits, personalities, and types of families they observed merely from their appearances. Finally the line dwindled to the end, when the blonde boy was finally the last one to be called.

 

“John Watson!” McGonagall’s voice rang throughout the room, and the boy eagerly stepped forwards and plopped himself down on the stool. He glanced once again towards Sherlock, his expression hopeful as the hat was placed down on his head.

 

The wait continued on for quite a while, Sherlock’s knuckles turning white from his clenching, his face expressionless. Celeste bit her lower lip, desperately wanting to prove herself right and beat the intelligence of the eleven year old at her side. The hat remained silent for an intolerable amount of time, John’s face slowly beginning to look doubtful. Celeste knew that he was probably having an in depth conversation with the hat to determine where he would be placed and was intensely grateful that she didn’t have to go through the same experience. She didn’t need anyone, or anything, poking through her brain, thank you very much.

 

Finally, the waiting lasting for several minutes and suffering through an innumerable amount of yawns from the students in the congregation, the hat finally made its decision. “GRYFFINDOR!” It shouted, the Gryffindor table exploding in applause. Sherlock turned to face Celeste, his expression smug. Celeste was crestfallen by her defeat, knowing that she was never going to live it down. An eleven year old had outwitted her. How embarrassing, and yet, she knew that Sherlock was special. She was curious of Sherlock’s potential—if he was this intelligent as an eleven year old, how much more so would he be when he reached his full capacity? She was anxious to find out.

 

\----------

 

John excitedly made his way towards the Gryffindor, extremely relieved that the tense moments during the sorting hat’s interrogation were over. It had been a close call between going into the Hufflepuff house or the Gryffindor house, but he was pleased with the result. He was slightly remiss that he hadn’t gone into the same house as Sherlock, but he knew he wasn’t smart enough and honestly the boy was a bit rude. He sat next to the other first years, including his friends Mike Stamford and Bill Murray, whom he had met on the boat trip to the castle.

 

He couldn’t believe it. He was in Hogwarts, and he was a wizard, and now he was in Gryffindor house where the bravest witches and wizards went into. He stared above him at the flickering candles that hovered below an open night sky, the stars clearly visible. A few months ago he would have never imagined something like this happening.

 

From the center of the head table the Headmaster himself stood up from his throne-like chair. He raised his hands into the air to silence the students. “I would just like to make a few announcements before the feast begins,” he stated in his gravelly voice as the hall quieted, his eyes peering through his half-moon spectacles at the students below him. His long white beard was so long that it could be tucked into the belt of his robes that were made of a grey and silver material.

 

“First, I would like to give a warm welcome to the new students, and an equally warm welcome to the ones returning. I would introduce myself and my fellow professors—I’m certain that the first years are anxious to learn who their new teachers will be and what is in store for them, but I have the feeling that they are even more anxious for the feast to begin.”

 

A chuckle spread throughout the great hall at that comment as the Headmaster grinned before continuing.

 

“Secondly, I must make it clear that the Forbidden Forest is out of bounds, and should any of you have the misfortune of travelling where you have been strictly forbidden a most terrible fate will be in store for you.”

 

John wrinkled his nose, wondering how close the Forbidden Forest was to the school and why its proximity would be so near to such a large amount of students. That certainly didn’t sound safe.

 

He suddenly got the urge to glance over towards Sherlock Holmes, his rude friend he had the fortune (or misfortune, he wasn’t quite sure yet) of spending the afternoon with. The Ravenclaw table was right beside the Gryffindor table, and from his vantage point he had a direct line of sight of the tall and deathly pale boy. Sherlock was seated by a pretty blonde girl, whom John had noticed talking with Sherlock throughout the sorting. When he saw Sherlock’s expression John’s stomach clenched.

 

It was the face. The same face his sister Harry would make when she was about to go out and do something stupid; when she got into arguments or when she snuck out (John had caught her a few times sneaking out her window.) Sherlock was making the same face now; his eyes flashing, a small coloring spreading along his high cheekbones, his nostrils slightly flared as his jaw clenched. John knew that look; Sherlock was planning on doing something stupid like breaking the very first rule that the Headmaster stated.

 

The Headmaster continued to speak, but John was oblivious to his speech as he watched Sherlock. He’s planning on heading into the Forbidden Forest as soon as he can, John determined. It was an incredibly stupid, foolhardy thing to do, resulting in a “most terrible fate,” but as John watched he knew that Sherlock was planning a way of sneaking out of the castle in order to roam through the forest. He hoped he wouldn’t be dumb enough to try it tonight, as a quick glance upwards showed that it was completely dark outside, the stars offering meager lighting. He determined that he would keep an eye on him, just in case.

 

John only partially paid attention to what the Headmaster said through the rest of the speech, his thoughts circling around the fact that Sherlock was most likely going to sneak out into the forest as soon as he got the chance. He was taken aback, however, when the headmaster suddenly clapped his hands together and the once bare table suddenly became covered with a wide array of overflowing, absolutely delicious looking food. His stomach growling from the sumptuous flavors wafting into his nose and his lips pulling into a wide smile to match the expressions of the students around him, John heartily dug into the food surrounding his plate.

 

The dinner passed by like a blur as John chatted amiably with his new friends, swapping stories as he filled up on the best tasting food he had ever experienced. Bill Murray turned out to be a rather gregarious fellow, constantly talking with a raised voice as he shouted with his mouth full to those sitting next to him, and if it weren’t for John’s close proximity to the spit splattering on him he would have found it a lot more humorous. Mike was a lot quieter, not contributing much to their conversation but was willing to laugh at all of the jokes that so seamlessly fell from John’s mouth. John actually had quite a witty humor, which his new friends seemed to enjoy quite a lot.

 

He couldn’t help but to compare his new friends to the boy he had shared the train ride with. Sherlock was different; intelligent, strange, and belligerently rude. Still, he was the first person John had met while entering this new world of magic. John stole a glance over to the Ravenclaw table, innately curious as to what the pale boy was up to.

 

Dark curls fell into Sherlock’s eyes as he stared down at his plate, pushing a meager amount of food around with a fork, seemingly disinterested with the act of eating. To the right of him was the pretty blonde girl, her plate full of a salad that she was nibbling on, much like a rabbit as she held a leaf to her mouth. She was looking at Sherlock, saying something. Sherlock replied, saying something that made her burst into a wide smile.

 

John was glad that Sherlock had made a friend, he had doubted that the boy would make many friends the way he acted; all superior and a know-it-all. As he watched he couldn’t help but to get the feeling that Sherlock was going to do something extremely stupid as he continued to fidget in his seat and glance all around himself with searching eyes as if to hide his intentions.

 

Bill spilled his goblet full of juice all over the table and John was distracted as his friends pushed and shoved each other to get out of the way of the liquid. He joined in and scooted over to the side, laughing along with them to tease Bill’s clumsiness. The next time he glanced up to look at the Ravenclaw table, Sherlock was gone.

 

John looked all around him, searching for the tall, pale boy, but he was nowhere in sight. The blonde girl was still there, eating her salad and talking animatedly with the other students near her. He knew instantly what had happened. It was the perfect time for Sherlock to head into the Forbidden forest as everyone in the school was at the feast. John stood up and excused himself from his friends, telling them that he had to go to the bathroom. Mike teased him by making water noises with his mouth and patted the wet puddle of juice as an attempt to make his bladder more uneasy. John laughed and then quickly headed away down the long table of students, receiving a few glances but for the most part he was ignored.

 

He stepped out into the abandoned hallway and looked around him, but no one was in sight. He made his way to the front doors of the castle where he first entered; seeing no one he began to worry that maybe Sherlock really did just go to the bathroom, and he was just over rationalizing. Sherlock wasn’t stupid, that much was true. But the look on his face when he heard about the forest...

 

John slowly pulled open the heavy door and peeked his head out. He saw movement far across the grass lawn. He slipped into the night air and shut the door behind him, straining his eyes towards the movement. He recognized the shape. It was Sherlock. John started running after him.


	2. The Forbidden Forest

Sherlock waited patiently, biding his time until he could escape. After the Headmaster had expressly forbidden them to go into the forest he knew that he would do just that. He had already come up with several reasons why entering the forest was forbidden to the students—most likely due to dangerous creatures or the chance that they might get lost among the trees—and rationalized that he would have no problem finding his way in the dark and that he wouldn’t venture too far in to get into danger.

Celeste continued talking to him. She was infuriating. Somehow she deemed herself to be as intelligent as he was, making observations and stating facts—successfully. He loathed the fact that she was able to see all of the things he was able to. He constantly attempted to one up her, and indeed he had guessed John’s house correctly when she got it wrong, but other than that she was able to make all of the same deductions as he had. How repugnant.

He wasn’t hungry but he decided to fill his plate with a small portion anyways and play with his food, waiting for his opportunity to leave unnoticed. He caught John glancing towards him a few times and figured it was because for some strange reason John thought he might be his friend. Sherlock knew he’d probably never again hang out with John Watson, the muggle wizard who had no idea about the wizarding world at all. Sherlock didn’t need friends. He pushed his food around, tense, waiting for the right time to make his leave.

“Planning on going somewhere dangerous?” Celeste asked, her strikingly blue eyes peering him over as she held a leaf of salad to her mouth.

“Do you need to ask because you are unsure of your deductions?” he answered snarkily.

A wide smile spread over her lips. “Don’t get lost in the forbidden forest tonight; you don’t want to be late for your first class tomorrow.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, wondering how she knew about his plans. He knew he wasn’t going to spend too long in the forbidden forest. It was his first night anyways, he’ll have plenty of time to explore throughout the year. He was just going to test the waters, so to speak.

When he glanced up he saw a commotion going on at the Gryffindor table, and John was right in the middle of it. He looked around him and noticed that no one was paying him any attention as the boys at the Gryffindor table shouted and jerked away from the spilled goblet. Now was his time.

He silently stood and began quickly striding down the long hall between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff table, drawing no attention to himself. He exited into the main hall without a glance back and walked through the hallways to the castle doors. He silently slid through the heavy doors and stepped out into pitch black darkness. Shutting the door quietly behind him, he immediately began heading towards the dark trees in the distance.

Once completely out of the sight of the school he withdrew his wand and whispered “lumos.” A light illuminated from his wand to reveal his surroundings. Once unobscured by the thick veil of darkness, the shadows danced across the treetops and fell to swarm across forest floor. Unperturbed by the tenebrous surroundings he pressed onwards, entering further into the gloom as shadows slithered all around him. He examined the forest floor covered by the thick roots of the menacing trees, and found nothing of interest. He determined that he would conduct an experiment defining the soils within the forbidden forest in order to classify what was in it, but now was not the time.

Time was irrelevant as Sherlock journeyed deeper into the forest, the minutes dragging by, the darkness getting thicker and almost palpable. It enveloped him, his light growing dimmer though his wand emitted the same amount of light. He pressed on heedlessly.

He didn’t search for something specific, instead he took in all of the details around him with mechanical precision, mapping his course from the school as he tangled and weaved through the trees in an erratic pattern. Suddenly he heard movement behind him. He froze, turning to hold his wand high, his eyes straining to see through the obfuscating darkness. Scurrying movement immediately drew his eye to a small log at his feet.

He crouched down, pointing the light from his wand towards the log and watched a spider scutter over the wood, its size much larger than he had ever seen before. The body alone of the spider was at least as big as his palm, its eight legs extending much further than that. The spider disappeared off into the brush.

“Finally,” Sherlock said under his breath. He trailed after it, intrigued by the creature and excited that something interesting had turned up.

He continued deeper into the forest as he followed the spider, weaving through the trees and pushing through the underbrush, his robes becoming caught and entangled by the reaching branches that clawed at him as he passed. But he didn’t care about the state of his robes.

From the corner of his eye he saw more movement, so he quickly shone his light towards another spider that came to join its brother, its size even bigger than the first one. Wondering where the spiders were leading him, his curiosity insatiable, Sherlock followed the two arachnids, unheeding the nagging thought at the back of his head that warned him that he was travelling into a dangerous situation.

The trees grew thicker and denser the farther he pressed into the forest. It took all of his effort just to keep his attention on the two spiders, as his light was feeble and he continually had to find different routes along the trees in order to keep up as they passed through the underbrush. Leaves and pine needles crunched beneath him, and when he shone his light down to illuminate a log his robe had caught on, he saw that the forest floor was moving.

There were thousands of tiny spiders following after the giant ones.

Even more intrigued, Sherlock wrenched his robe free of the branch and hurried after the scurrying spiders. Minutes passed as the amount of spiders he was following grew in numbers. Thin wisps of spider webs began appearing all throughout the branches. He brushed them away, but the sticky strands clung to his robes and wove into his hair. The webs only grew thicker as he progressed deeper into the forest.

Then, all of the spiders disappeared into a thick brush, escaping away from him. He pressed into the bush but it was too thick, so he began walking around it, finding himself in front of a wall of impassable foliage. He went back to the place the spiders passed into and shone his light into the small hole, quickly determining that he would be able to fit through it as well if he shimmied on his stomach.

He knew crawling through wasn’t a good idea. If he encountered anything dangerous on the other side of the scratchy foliage, he’d have to scoot back on his stomach. It would slow him down immensely. He crouched and leaned back on his heels as he shone the light from his wand all around him.

The forest was completely black and the meager light cast eerie shadows. Thick white spider webs draped through jagged branches that jutted out in all angles from the dense trees. He had a decision to make. Either follow the spiders, which had proven to be extremely interesting, or give up and go back to the school.

He got down on his hands on knees and slowly slid to the forest floor, pulling himself forwards as the brush and leaves tangled into his hair and wrenched at his robes. He wasn’t afraid. He knew how to handle himself in dangerous situations, and he promised himself that he wouldn’t let it get that far. He couldn’t possibly be near the main spider hive; though he was deep in the forest, it was still too close to the castle for anything like an entire spider coven to be lurking.

When he finally emerged at the other side he stood and brushed himself off before holding his wand out to examine his surroundings. The sight made him freeze. He was wrong in his assumptions. Just how long had he been travelling through the forest? He couldn’t possibly this deep into the forest, unless he had lost track of time. The pounding of his heart rang in his ears.

Hundreds of black eyes stared at him like predators who just witnessed their prey come waltzing into their home. Gigantic spiders scurried throughout the large clearing, their hairy legs jostling and pushing each other for room. They were enormous, much bigger than the two spiders he had followed. These ones could easily trump the size of a large dog.

Sherlock immediately regretted journeying into the forest alone on his first night at the school, realizing that he was in much more danger than what he bargained for. He was the fly walking straight into the web amidst all of the spiders.

In one fluid movement suddenly all of the spiders scurried forwards to attack. Sherlock dropped down and began backing out of the thick brush as fast as he could to make his frantic escape. As soon as he got out of the brush he jumped to his feet and turned to run, hearing the unmistakable sounds of thousands of scurrying feet racing after him. The tree branches scratched his face and tore at his robes as he ran headlong through the trees.

Hearing the spiders draw even closer to him, he became more frantic. His foot got caught on a root, and as thoughts of his own demise came to his mind, he fell face first into the hard forest ground. He frantically turned, holding his wand up as protection as the first spider pounced onto him.

He was going to die. The spider was going to bite him and inject him with paralyzing poison as all of its brothers and sisters joined in to finish him off. His eyes opened wide with fear as he faced his imminent death.

Suddenly the spider fell to the side, knocked away by a flying rock. He blinked. He was saved. A rock saved his life. But he had no time to figure out where the saving throw came from, as another spider pounced on him.

“Stupefy!” Sherlock shouted, sending the spider flying. He began scrambling backwards as more spiders ganged up on him, but the next in line was knocked aside by another sailing rock.

“Stupefy, stupefy!” he shouted frantically, waving his wand like a madman. He grabbed a low hanging branch with his free hand and pulled himself to his feet, another spider knocked unconscious mid-leap before reaching him.

He turned and saw John only a few yards away bending down to pick up a few more rocks. The boy that annoyed him back at the station and then forced himself into the same compartment on the train. The blonde idiot followed him all the way out into the forbidden forest to be torn apart by spiders.

And yet, John saved his life. If he hadn’t been there—hadn’t paid him any attention, Sherlock would have been eaten by now. If that’s what spiders even did to humans, he wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to find out.

A huge, hairy spider crawled down the branch he was holding onto, its pincers extended into sharp points. Sherlock quickly dropped the branch and bashed the spider in its face with the butt of his wand. He wasn’t out of danger yet.

“Come on!” John shouted as a rock whizzed by Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock raced towards him, grabbing the boy by the sleeve of his robe and turning him around and together they raced away from the spiders. He had no idea what John was doing there, but as of right now Sherlock didn’t care.

John trailed slightly behind Sherlock, obviously completely lost, as Sherlock led them both back to the school, the spiders drawing ever nearer. A spider came up on their left so Sherlock sent off a stunning curse. John had an armful of rocks and he shot one of them backwards to nail a beady black eye. The spider squealed in pain and torpedoed off into a tree, only to be replaced by dozens of its siblings.

Adrenaline coursed through Sherlock’s veins as they ran headlong through the forest, retracing his steps as fast as he could. He would occasionally twist and shoot off another stunning curse to keep the spiders from getting to close, and John would add to the assault with one of his rocks. It didn’t take long for John to run out.

Sherlock worked double time, staying in the lead to show John the way, while twisting and shooting away the spiders that neared them. There were simply too many spiders for Sherlock’s attempts to be any good. He ducked beneath a branch and shoved through a particularly sticky patch of spider webs. His breath hitched in his throat when he heard the blood-curdling scream come from behind him.

He turned back to watch John fall to the ground, tackled by a gigantic spider. Without another thought he raced back to his friend, his wand extended at the ready. John wrestled with the spider, holding a pincer in each hand as he strained against the huge arachnid.

“Stupefy!” Sherlock shouted. The huge spider flew away, leaving space for two more spiders to overrun John. The first one was knocked away by a massive punch to the face from the Gryffindor student, and Sherlock stunned the second one by the time he reached his friend.

He held out a hand and John readily grasped it to be pulled to his feet, his eyes wide. Not letting go, Sherlock turned and began racing back to the school, dragging John behind him. For being so short, John was doing a remarkable job at keeping up.

Not wanting to lose any time by turning around and sending another stunning curse, Sherlock ran headlong through the forest, glad to see that the trees were growing thinner and less dense. His breath came in gasps as his lungs flamed from lack of oxygen. His light from his wand shakily illuminated their surroundings, but they relied mostly on dumb luck as they raced through the trees, the light too dim to really do them any good; though by now it was apparent that there weren’t any more webs draping the trees.

Risking a glance back, Sherlock turned and saw that there weren’t hardly any spiders chasing them anymore. Apparently several of them had lost interest and stopped the chase the farther they got away. He shouted another stunning curse at the nearest arachnid and then turned his attention ahead.

They continued to sprint, long after the last spider had left and they were no longer being chased. Once they were in the thinner trees and closer to the edge of the forest, Sherlock glanced all around him to see that they were safe and slowed to a jog, coming to a stop at the very edge of the forest. He dropped John’s hand, unaware that he had held it the entire time.

Sherlock leaned against a tree, trying his best to get his breath back and calm his racing heart. Through the sparse trees Hogwarts castle shone brilliantly.

He heard airy laughter from his right, so he turned to see John leaning heavily against his knees, his expression jubilant as he sucked in deep breaths of air.

“That was bloody frightening,” John stated, but instead of appearing frightened he was in an exhausted sense of joy, the adrenaline still coursing through him.

Sherlock had no idea why John had followed him or how he had been able to escape his notice as he traveled through the forest. He had seriously undermined John’s talents, and loyalty. “Why did you follow me?” he breathlessly asked.

John giggled in between breaths. “Because you’re a bloody idiot.”

His choice of words was extremely irritating to Sherlock. Not only had he used the same expletive in both sentences, but he was seriously ignorant and offensive towards Sherlock’s thinking abilities. Sherlock clenched his teeth, knowing that his actions had been rash and had led him directly into danger, knowing full well that if John hadn’t been there he would have been killed. They remained in silence as the two of them regained their breath and got their heartbeats back to normal, the adrenaline slowly seeping from their bodies.

“Thanks, by the way,” John said.

Sherlock peered at him, wondering why John would be the one saying thanks. He should be the one that was grateful, not John. John saved him by following after him and knocking away the spiders with his rocks, and it was all Sherlock’s fault that they had been chased by spiders in the first place.

Noticing Sherlock’s confused look, John continued; “After I fell, you came back for me.” He looked absolutely exuberant as he stared at Sherlock with gratitude.

A swallow stuck in Sherlock’s throat. He hadn’t anticipated receiving a thanks after nearly killing the boy. He was no hero for going back for him. Any normal person would have done the same. He lowered his eyes.

After a moment or two John stood and straightened his robes. His movement drew Sherlock’s attention. He watched as John pouted at all of the tears in the fabric. Spider webs laced his body as if someone had dumped a bucket of sticky string over John’s head. John began picking at them, a scowl crossing his face.

Sherlock peered at him curiously, knowing that John was poor and that he most likely wasn’t in possession of another pair of nice robes. He began straightening himself out, pulling out a few tangled leaves from his long hair and brushing off dirt from his front and back, not even bothering with the monumental amount of webs that covered his own body.

“You can fix the tears. A minor reparo spell will do it,” Sherlock suggested, knowing that he’d probably have to fix his own robes after he got rid of all of the webs.

“What about the webs?” John asked as he shook his hand in an attempt to dislodge a glop of them that clung obstinately to his fingers.

Sherlock pushed himself off the tree. “If you gather it all up into a ball you can probably knit with it.”

John furrowed his brow at him, not sure whether or not to take him seriously or if he had been joking.

Sherlock realized something that he hadn’t noticed before. John didn’t know any magic, and yet he was able to follow Sherlock through the dark forest without an illuminating spell. It wasn’t logical that John had made his way through the forest in the pitch black darkness.

“How did you follow me?” Sherlock asked. “You didn’t use your wand.”

John appeared embarrassed as he looked at Sherlock’s glowing wand. He reached into his robe and pulled out a cylinder piece of plastic and pressed down on a button, the torch quickly springing to life and shining out a beam of light. He held up the muggle flashlight, “I put it away when I started picking up rocks,” he explained.

Sherlock finished brushing himself off and figured that he’d have to deal with his ravished robes later. “Turn it off,” he stated to John before he whispered to his wand, his light dimming completely. John’s light soon followed and they were left in complete darkness, the light from the school the only thing leading the way as they began heading back to the castle.

“Why’d you do it?” John asked as his legs sped in order to keep up with Sherlock’s long gait.

Sherlock thought for a moment, wondering what John had referred to. Then he realized that John was asking him why he came out to the forest in the first place.

“Why not do it?” he replied, not wanting to give him a real answer. Curiosity. Boredom. Rebellion. The list was surprisingly short, and given the results they weren’t a good excuse for putting his life in danger.

“You sound like my sister.”

“I’d rather be compared to one of the spiders.” Sherlock retorted. He didn’t like being compared to John’s lesbian drug addict older sister. It wasn’t very fitting.

John giggled. “Yeah, they seem nice.”

Sherlock glanced back through the trees into the darkness, but he didn’t see any eyes watching them. He looked over to John, who surprisingly seemed rather optimistic for just coming face to face with death. He had never met anyone like John before, and for once he actually felt like continuing the conversation though normally he would remain silent.

“The only problem with being a spider is that they tend to go off into groups; I’d much rather be left in solitude,” Sherlock admitted.

“That’s the worst thing you can think of about being a spider?” John asked, incredulous. He rubbed his nose, only to crinkle it with distaste as he pulled out a long web from his nostrils. He grimaced. “If you were a spider you’d have this coming out of your bum.” He tried flinging it away, but instead it clung to his fingers. “And you’d have to have giant pincers and extremely hairy legs.”

Sherlock smirked as he watched John fling his hands about in an attempt to dislodge the webs. “I wouldn’t mind those too much.”

John gave up and wiped his hand on his tattered trousers. “Spiders aren’t my first choice for what I’d change into.” He perked up when he saw that they finally entered the castle grounds, leaving the last tree behind them. “I’d prefer a dog. Or a lion.”

Sherlock humphed with distaste. The castle loomed ahead as they trudged along the wet grass. The night was completely black around them, and Sherlock figured that the students had long since gone to bed. He hadn’t realized how many hours had passed, but it was now far into the middle of the night.

John turned to look at him expectantly. “Can we change into animals? With magic? That’d be so cool.”

“It’s possible, but highly unlikely that you’d manage it.” Sherlock said haughtily. “Only highly trained wizards become an animagus.”

John bristled in anger and determination. “I’ll be able to do it. If I try hard enough.”

Sherlock highly doubted that John would be able to take on an animal form, seeing as hardly any muggle borns were capable of the task. However, after witnessing John’s skills at defending against spiders in the forest, he figured that if John set his mind to it he just might be able to become an animagus. But it still wasn’t very likely that he’d manage. He remained silent on the matter, not wanting to insult John further, as he had just saved his life after all.

“What about you?” John asked, ever optimistically persistent. “What animal would you choose to become?”

Sherlock had been curious about the ability to change into another form and had often wondered what animal he would choose; the freedom that comes with sneaking around as an animal without drawing attention to himself would be very valuable. He probably wouldn’t choose a spider, too risky. Everyone tries to kill spiders. And after almost being killed by them, he didn’t think he wanted to be one anymore. He would choose something more useful that was small and agile. Like a mouse, or a cat.

He shrugged dismissively. “I never entertained the notion,” he said with his nose in the air.

“Course you have. You just probably deleted it.” John laughed, his eyes sparkling in the dim lighting mischievously.

Clenching his teeth, Sherlock looked away from John to glare at the large castle they were nearing. He saw no movement, so hopefully no one was awake to catch them on the castle grounds at this late in the night.

John walked along in silence for a moment or two. “I think I know what you’d choose.”

Intrigued, Sherlock shot a glance at his short counterpart. John was trying desperately to hide a smirk as he bit his lower lip.

“What?” Sherlock asked, his voice full of worry. Whatever John was thinking of, it most likely wouldn’t be something that he’d approve of.

Attempting to hide his grin, John straightened his lips and bit the inside of his cheeks. “Oh, you know. Guess.”

Scoffing loudly, Sherlock rolled his eyes. John wanted to play a game, and Sherlock was not going to acquiescent him. “I don’t guess. I deduce.”

“Alright, fine. Deduce what animal I think you’d be brilliant at,” John said with a smirk.

How tedious, Sherlock thought with a scowl. They stepped on the pathway leading to the main doorway to the castle. Soon they would be back inside. Sherlock realized with a start that he had no idea where his rooms are or where to go.

“Come on, just name an animal,” John said impatiently.

With an aggrandized sigh Sherlock gave in. “I don’t know. A rabbit.”

John smirked. “I can imagine you as a fluffy little rabbit, your hair is perfect for it, but no. I gave you an animal with fingers.”

Sherlock glared at John as they continued along the pathway, not liking this game. “Just tell me,” he growled, figuring that John had picked something obnoxious like an ape.

“Aren’t you a genius? You should be able to read my mind or something.” John looked down at his shoulder as he pulled off a string of webs.

“I’m not a legilimens, so I don’t know how to enter your thoughts.”

John jerked up at that. “Wait, there are people out there who can read my mind?” Lines of worry creased his forehead.

“It’s a rare talent and extremely difficult,” Sherlock said with a huff. “And they don’t like to consider it mind reading, it’s much more intricate than that.”

“Oh,” John said dumbly, his brows pulled into a knot as he thought through the new information. “So, I won’t meet anybody here that can read my mind?”

Sherlock shrugged. “The headmaster might be able to. I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

“Heh,” John laughed as something funny crossed his mind. “We’d better not get sent to the headmaster’s office then, or else he’ll know exactly what we’ve done.”

Sherlock peered at him, wondering what he was getting at. They had just nearly killed themselves by traipsing through the forest and were completely covered with spider webs. Anyone who encountered them would be able to know where they were that night. It took him too long to realize that John was being sarcastic. He turned away from him and walked up the steps to the front doors.

Grasping the large handles, he pulled open the door slowly. It remained silent, sliding open on well-oiled hinges. He stepped inside and made room for John to enter before shutting it behind them. The area was completely abandoned; they had been in the forest when the feast had ended and all of the students had gone to bed. He glanced all around him, quickly thinking through all of the scenarios that would get him and John safely to their rooms without drawing notice.

John examined the empty entryway. “So, have you figured it out yet?” he asked.

“What?” Sherlock said absentmindedly, still trying to think through what they were going to do. He didn’t know where to go, and if they bumped into anyone they would get in trouble for going into the forest.

“Your animal,” John clarified.

Sherlock looked down the great hall, not really paying attention to John. The different houses dormitories were hidden throughout the castle, and he didn’t know where any of them were. If they had stayed with the other first years, they would have been led to their dorms. They wouldn’t know where each other had gone, seeing as the houses kept themselves separate from each other, but at least they would have had a bed to sleep in that night. And they wouldn’t have been nearly killed by ravenous spiders.

John walked ahead of him and crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you give up?”

Sherlock didn’t have time for this. He needed to focus his energies on figuring out where the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor rooms were. Or he could just leave John behind and find his own room, though considering the fact that John had saved his life by following after him, he decided that wouldn’t be too nice of him to abandon him like that.

“Yes,” Sherlock said without hesitation. They needed to avoid detection, or at least wash up a bit so that it’s not so obvious that they had been running through the forest.

“You gave up pretty quickly,” John said as he raised his eyebrow.

Ignoring him, Sherlock began walking down the hallway, thinking through the layout of the castle. He hadn’t done any exploring, but he knew that there were seven floors. The different classrooms were spaced all throughout the floors and even into the basement, and the four different houses could be located anywhere. Even if they found the corridor the dormitory was hidden on, it would be nearly impossible to figure out where the doorway was. It could be hidden behind a portrait for all he knew, and then they’d have to say the password, which neither of them knew.

“It’s an otter,” John said, vying for attention as he followed after him.

Sherlock wasn’t expecting that answer. An otter? In what ways does he resemble an otter? He shot a glance at John, who was trailing after him. His blonde hair was obscured by thin webs and he looked like an absolute mess.

Out of a doorway ahead he heard movement. He reached out a hand to halt John and froze completely, knowing that there was nowhere for them to hide. A student entered the hallway, and Sherlock immediately recognized her as Celeste.


	3. 03 Eavesdropping

Celeste found it extremely easy to befriend her fellow eleven-year-olds. It was so much easier to make friends with children than with adults. She soon became popular in her group and the other students constantly turned to her for approval after stating something funny. Talking with the Ravenclaws was so much different than her interactions with Sherlock, and though the house boasted of the brightest students, they didn’t even compare to Sherlock’s intelligence.

When John had abruptly stood from his table to hurry out of the room, she instantly knew that he was going to follow after Sherlock. She was glad that the genius wouldn’t be left alone, though she didn’t doubt his capabilities. Throughout the rest of the feast she entertained her new friends, her thoughts focused on what Sherlock was doing and when he would be back. The Forbidden Forest was extremely dangerous, and two eleven-year-olds just went into it without telling anybody. 

The feast dragged on, and she began fidgeting, feeling guilty that something terrible had happened to the two first years. 

They never returned.

She glanced around dismally when the feast ended and all of the plates were cleared away. Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster, stood up and made another speech. It didn’t interest her, and she only halfway listened as she stared longingly at the doors to the great hall. If Sherlock and John didn’t return before the feast ended, they wouldn’t know where their houses were hidden.

Honestly, for someone having such a large intelligence Sherlock really should his little nighttime trip a little better. At least until after he knew where he would be sleeping for the night. 

A loud applause erupted throughout the great hall as the students cheered the ending of the speech. Celeste turned her attention back to the headmaster. He was standing at the pulpit, holding his hands out for silence. 

When it finally quieted down enough for him to speak, though there was still a lot of chatter going on among the students, Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Prefects, if you will please rise.”

Benches scraped as a handful of students from every table stood. They were all at least in their sixth year, though the majority of them were seventh years, Celeste concluded. They stood apart from the other students by the shiny badge pinned to their chests.

“First years, if you would please follow your prefects to your House Dormitories,” the headmaster said. “Remember that you are not allowed to share the location of your dormitories with the other houses. That does not mean, however,” he adjusted his half-moon spectacles, pushing them higher up his nose, “that inter-house mingling is banned. Making friends among the other houses is a great way to make new friends.” 

His wrinkled eyes peered out among all of the students. “I hope that your stay at Hogwarts will be educational and enjoyable. And now, I wish you all a good night. First Years are excused first, and once they depart the rest of you will be allowed to leave.”

Noise roared throughout the great hall as students began talking animatedly to one another and the first years stood. Celeste hesitated, feeling nervous. Sherlock and John would probably be fine, but she felt responsible over them, knowing that they would be completely lost and unsure of where to go when they came back. She determined to find out where they both needed to be and wait around for them until they returned.

The Ravenclaw prefects began leading the first years down the great hall. Celeste joined the back of the group, her eye on the door, waiting to see if a tall dark haired boy slipped in next to a short blonde one. She had no such luck.

Leaving the great hall, the prefects led them to the Grand Staircase. The students stared up at the moving staircases in awe, but they weren’t allowed to linger as the prefects pushed them onwards with a furious pace. Watching the students ahead of her, she noticed them all pause slightly on the fifth step, their feet sinking into the marble. It only took a few first years to sink slightly into the step before the rest of the Ravenclaws began skipping over that step. 

The Ravenclaw dormitories ended up being on the fifth floor on the western part of the castle. They all gathered around a thick wooden door at the end of the corridor. The door didn’t have a handle or a keyhole; the only thing adorning the dark wood was a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle. 

The first years all gathered in a semicircle around the door, Celeste remaining in the back of the group. A tall bow with brown hair slicked back strode in front of the door. He was a prefect, and one of the rare sixth year ones, Celeste saw. 

“This is the entrance to the Ravenclaw House Dormitories,” he said, rubbing at his already shining badge with his sleeve. “After you use the knocker a riddle will be stated, which you will have to solve to gain entrance. It opens into the common rooms, where you can study and relax.” He offered them a shy smile. “It’s where I normally study, anyways. My name is Simon, and if you ever need anything, feel free to ask me and I’d be willing to help.” His eyes scanned the crowd of students until he focused in on the girl to Celeste’s right. 

Celeste glanced over at the small eleven-year old. Her brown hair was parted down the middle and hung limply down her back. She realized that this must be the prefect’s younger sister.

“Your bedrooms will be on the second floor up the spiral staircases,” Simon continued. “The boys’ rooms are on the right and the girls’ rooms are on the left.”

Hearing enough, Celeste silently slipped away. She was in the very back of the group so no one noticed her leave, but she knew that she wouldn’t be able to escape notice for forever. The next group of students laughed and jostled their way down the hall. Before they saw her, Celeste slipped into the bathroom. If she got caught, they’d force her to return to her house dormitory with the rest of the first years. She needed to find out where the Gryffindor dorms were, but there was an easier way to escape notice than walking through the halls on her own.

Grateful that the bathroom was empty, she propped the door slightly open so that after she changed forms she’d be able to leave. She stepped away from the door to the corner of the bathroom where anyone walking past wouldn’t be able to see her. Without further ado, she began to transform into one of her animagus forms. Being the immortal she was, she had mastered several forms over the years, but for now she turned into her favorite one; a pure white siamese cat. 

Her body tingled as she slowly shrank into the animal form, her limbs shrinking into four legs and paws, a long tail elongating out of the base of her spine. Once finished with her transformation, which didn’t take long at all, she slid through the propped open restroom door and into the corridor.

She lightly padded her way through the halls and retraced her steps to the grand staircase. She doubted that the Gryffindor house would be on the same floor as the Ravenclaw one. Students ignored her as she descended the stairs, and she saw that most of them were Ravenclaw. A few Hufflepuffs also passed her, so she figured their house was located somewhere on the fourth floor.

Peering through the railing, she saw a group of four boys wearing red and gold scarves heading up to the third floor. They turned into the corridor as they talked animatedly amongst themselves. She hurried after them, descending two steps at a time. Catching up to them easily, she padded alongside them and caught on to their conversation. They looked like they could be in their third year.

“But I don’t know where the kitchen is,” the smallest boy complained. She glanced up at him. His chin was extremely small and his top teeth jutted out viciously from his face, making him take on the appearance of a rat.

A tall, skinny lad reached out an arm and pulled in the small boy. “Wormtail, Wormtail,” he chided, shaking his head and sending his black shaggy hair into his eyes. “The reason why you don’t know where the kitchen is ‘cause you can’t keep your mouth shut—if we tell you, you’re going to go on squeaking to everyone where it is.”

“We can trust him,” the skinniest boy said. He was only slightly shorter than the shaggy haired one and he had a pair of oval shaped glasses. “You won’t squeak, will you?” He peered at the short boy as they walked along.

“No, no, I would never!” the short boy said, shaking his head emphatically.

“Y’sure, Prongs? Wormtail don’t seem the trustworthy type,” the shaggy haired boy said, his arm still draped over Wormtail.

What strange names, Celeste thought as she followed silently behind them, sticking to the wall to avoid being stepped on, though there weren’t very many other students in the hallway, and certainly no one else within hearing range of the four Gryffindors next to her.

Not deigning to answer, the boy with glasses ruffled his fingers through his hair, making the short black strands stick up haphazardly all over. “He’ll be able to keep quiet,” he finally said. “B’sides, this is the most important part of our plan. If he doesn’t get the flour, our prank will be ruined.”

“I’m not sure that going through with this prank is that good of an idea,” said the tallest boy on the far left. He had brown hair that was brushed neatly to the side and the way he held himself shouted “goody-two-shoes.” He was probably one of those that followed all of the rules and brown nosed all of his teachers.

“Chicken!” the shaggy haired boy said as he pushed away Wormtail. The short boy stumbled but was able to catch himself before he fell. Wormtail sheepishly kept his gaze on the ground as his legs scrambled to keep up with the taller boys.

The shaggy haired boy punched the tall boy to his left. “I’ve been planning this all summer! Those first years are going to wish that they never stepped foot into the school run by Padfoot!” He proudly pointed to himself on his last declaration, and Celeste realized that that was his name. Or, at least his nickname.

“Any plan involving Peeves isn’t that great of a plan,” Prongs said with a smirk. In turn he also received a punch on the shoulder from Padfoot.

“Look, all you need to do is follow through with what I’ve told you, and this prank will go down in history!” Padfoot said proudly. He pointed at Wormtail. “You need to get the flour.” He pointed at the two other boys. “Prongs, Moony, you will make the flour bombs. All of the ingredients are in my suitcase.” A wide grin spread across his face to reveal his crooked teeth. “As for myself, I’ll deal with Peeves.”

“But what if I get caught?” Wormtail said as he began wringing his small hands together.

“You won’t.” Prongs said cheerily. “Padfoot and I never get caught after visiting the kitchen, even when we’re carrying armfuls of stuff, and everyone knows we’re trouble makers. No one will even give you a second glance when you walk through the hallways carrying bags of flour.”

Wormtail shuddered at the thought and slouched even lower, making the robes he was wearing—that were at least two times his size—completely dwarf his small frame.

“If he’s seen walking around with the flour tonight then tomorrow morning it’ll be tied back to him,” Moony warned. He straightened his already impeccable robes as they turned into the next corridor.

Padfoot laughed and brushed a strand of greasy hair out of his face. “That’s why we’re making him do it.”

Wormtail jerked his head up in fright, his lips pulled up to reveal is freakishly jutting teeth. “But I don’t want to get in trouble!”

“It’s better you than us,” Padfoot said jokingly as he pushed Wormtail to the side, almost sending him sprawling. “If either Prongs or I get caught we’ll get expelled ‘cause the teachers are sick and tired of us. They won’t even bat an eye at you.”

“He’s not going to get caught,” Prongs said defensively. “All he has to do is stick the flour under his cloak, and he’ll be fine.”

“Ha! See, my plan’s impenetrable!” Padfoot boasted.

Moony pursed his lips. “How are you going to get Peeves to help?”

“Are you kidding?” Padfoot asked in mock severity. “That’s going to be the easiest part. There’s no way Peeves will turn down throwing flour bombs at first years. He’s the one that’s going to be blamed for everything, and no one is going to tie this back to us.”

“Unless you tell everyone that we’re the ones that did it,” Prongs said with a smile.

“And it will be brilliant, we’ll go down in history!” Padfoot said, equally cheerful.

“Until Peeves gets carried away with his bomb throwing and hits all of the students instead of just the first years,” Moony said, worry painting his face. Going by his appearance, Celeste doubted that Moony would appreciated being pelted by flour bombs. Not a spec of dirt was on the boy and each strand of hair was perfectly in place.

They stopped in front of a large portrait depicting an equally large lady. Celeste realized that she was now outside of the Gryffindor’s dormitory, the boys had led her straight there. Now she knew where John would be staying, but she still needed the password.

“Well then, stay out of Peeve’s way,” Padfoot said.

“Password?” the fat woman in the portrait spoke up. She peered at the boys with obvious distrust as her lips pulled into a grimace.

Prongs stepped forward to address her. “Brussel sprouts.”

The portrait swung open. Moony and Prongs stepped inside, but just as Wormtail moved forward Padfoot grabbed the small boy’s robes and wrenched him backwards. He pulled him to the side and turned Wormtail around to face him.

“You have a job to do,” he said in a serious tone.

“What, now?” Wormtail whimpered.

Padfoot held up a finger and poked it into the boy’s sternum harshly. “Go down the stairs leading to the Hufflepuff basement, directly beneath the Great Hall. Tickle the pear on the portrait, and once inside the kitchen ask the house elves for two bags of flour.” 

Wormtail swallowed hard. “Tickle the pear?” 

“Yeah. Simple. Oh, and the house elves love giving out food, but don’t stay for too long, and if you get any treats bring some back for us.”

His skin turning pale, Wormtail nodded solemnly. 

“Ok, now get.” Padfoot shoved the small boy into the hallway and disappeared through the opening without a glance back.

The portrait promptly shut, leaving Wormtail alone in the hallway. He sniffled, on the verge of tears, before turning to go back to the Grand Staircase. He didn’t look like much, but he was obviously brave enough to go be placed into Gryffindor and to go through with this ridiculous plan.

Knowing the kitchen’s location might prove to be beneficial in the future, so she set that information aside. Celeste turned away, glad that she now knew where John needed to be. 

She went to the front entrance of the castle to wait for their eventual return, remaining in her cat form. She sat in the corner of an adjacent hallway to the main hall, her tail swirling in patternless motions around her. She hoped the boys would come through the main doors, though she knew that there were dozens of other entrances they could take. Or, possibly, they could have already slipped in, and she had missed him. Regardless, without anything better to do and with no other plan for finding them, Celeste remained in place. 

.

Finally, what seemed like hours later, she heard the main doors silently creep open. Sherlock’s head popped through the door, his face streaked with dirt and there was a solitary twig sticking out from amid his curls. Glad that they were safe she ambled to her feet and began walking down her hallway to find a place for her to regain her normal appearance. Or at least what was considered normal for her now, as she was trapped in a child’s body.

She slid into a doorway and began her transformation, listening intently as Sherlock and John silently made their way down the hallway. Once finished she stepped out and reveled in the shock apparent in both of their faces. The two of them looked like they had been rolling around in the dirt and leaves before diving headfirst into tree branches and ripping their robes to shreds. Thin white gossamer strings completely encompassed their bodies. She wondered what the two of them had gotten up to while in the forest, especially since it took them so long to return.

“Did you have fun on your little adventure?” she asked, idling towards them. On closer inspection she saw that they were covered head to toe with spider webs.

Sherlock scowled at her, obviously not pleased that they had been caught. John appeared embarrassed and a little frightened at the sight of her.

Worry began to dig within Celeste’s stomach. There was only one creature that created webs of that size. Sherlock had gotten himself into more danger than Celeste thought was possible, but somehow, miraculously, he was alive. She glanced over at John, realizing that he was responsible for getting Sherlock back safely. 

“Did you meet a few Acromantulas or did you just crawl around in their webs?” she asked lightly, not wanting to let on that she was worried.

John self-consciously rubbed the front of his robes, but the webs clung obstinately. 

“That’s none of your business,” Sherlock blurted. He forced his way past her to continue down the corridor. 

She wondered where he was going, as he obviously had no idea where his room was. 

“Wait. Look, don’t worry.” She jogged up to him and kept up with his furious pace. “I won’t tell anyone about your traipse through the forest. I’ll even lead the two of you to your rooms.” 

“Why?” Sherlock blurted. John hurried to his side and gave a reprimanding stare at him for being extremely rude.

Why indeed? Because she felt slightly responsible for them, being an adult an all—not that they were aware of that. She was actually interested in Sherlock and didn’t want to see him in trouble. Someone with his intelligence would be a nice break from the doldrums of dealing with other children for an entire year, and if he was sent off to detention or expelled she wouldn’t be able to see him.

“Because I’m nice. I don’t want you two getting caught, especially since I was also involved,” Celeste said.

“What?” John asked. His blue eyes were wide and he appeared appalled that someone else beside him and Sherlock knew of their plans.

“I figured out where he was going during the feast, and I didn’t stop him even though I knew it was dangerous,” Celeste said.

Sherlock avoided her gaze and sniffed. “We were perfectly safe.”

John sent him a disbelieving look. “You call nearly being killed by spiders safe?”

That didn’t sound good. Celeste looked at the web draped across Sherlock’s shoulder. They would have had to go extremely far into the forest to encounter so much thick webbing. Perhaps they even found the main Acromantula coven; that would explain their apparent mad dash through the woods if they had been chased by spiders. Their recklessness was astounding.

“How do you know where the Gryffindor dormitory is?” Sherlock interjected, changing the subject as he glared at Celeste without breaking his stride.

“Why wouldn’t she know where it is?” John asked..

“The student’s aren’t supposed to know where any of the other houses are, only the location of their own,” she explained as Sherlock rolled his eyes, irritated by John’s ignorance.

“Then why do you know where my house is?” John asked. He looked across Sherlock to peer at her inquisitively. “Who are you, by the way?”

Celeste completely forgot that she and John hadn’t properly been introduced yet. “My name’s Celeste. It’s nice to meet you, John.” She held out a hand in front of Sherlock to shake, but Sherlock pushed it away before John had a chance to take it.

John looked between the two of them. “Sherlock told you about me?” He sounded almost hopeful, like he hadn’t expected Sherlock to be interested in him but was pleased to learn that he was.

Sherlock huffed in response. “No. She heard your name during the sorting.”

“Oh.” John looked crestfallen. Apparently, even after breaking dozens of rules with Sherlock, he still wasn’t sure that they were friends. He wrinkled his nose. “Then... how do you know where my house dorm is if you’re a Ravenclaw?”

Celeste was certain that she probably shouldn’t answer that question honestly. She didn’t want anyone knowing that she could change into a cat, as she normally used that skill to spy on others. Who knew, she might even spy on John and Sherlock quite often, especially if they took to go sneaking around causing trouble. They would certainly be interesting to watch. 

“Because I’m clever,” she answered with a smirk.

They entered the room with all of the grand staircases. John halted mid step and stared dumbfounded at the sight before him as the flights of stairs moved on their own accord.

From the corner of her eye she caught Sherlock’s glare. 

“Hardly,” he muttered. “No one really paid attention to which house the first years were sent to. All you had to do was follow the crowd and learn where your own dormitory was before turning around, appearing to be lost, and ask where the Gryffindor dorms were. Then you would have been led there and given the password, the helper not even realizing that it wasn’t your house. Simple.”

Celeste was impressed, she didn’t even have to come up with a lie; Sherlock invented his own excuse for her. She certainly appreciated his intelligence, but he could be really uninventive sometimes. It was much more exciting to stay that she had done the espionage while in the form of a cat. “Quick deductions,” Celeste praised, stepping onto the staircase.

Sherlock followed along without another thought, but John remained at the foot of the stairs. He stared at the marble steps dubiously, unsure if they were going to move. Sherlock continued on up, but Celeste paused and watched John. His dark blonde hair was sticking up on all ends and there was a streak of dirt on his nose.

“Don’t worry, John,” Celeste said. “The stairs don’t bite, though the fifth one up does stick a bit.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sherlock hesitate before placing his foot down on the fifth stair. Then, completely disregarding her warning, he stepped on it and watched as his foot began sinking into the marble.

John watched as well, his mouth dropping open. Sherlock withdrew his foot with a jerk and peered at the marble with distaste. He crouched down and poked it, his expression turning to fascination as his finger sunk into the stair.

Celeste rolled her eyes and made her way up, hopping gracefully over the fifth stair. “Come along boys, before the staircase decides to move.” She stopped near the top of the staircase to look back.

John swallowed heavily before placing a foot hesitantly on the first stair. After realizing that it supported his weight, he began slowly making his way up, making a grand gesture of stepping over the fifth stair. 

Not wanting to be left behind, or perhaps figuring that he could experiment on the stair at another time, Sherlock briskly brushed past John on his way up.

The rest of their ascent passed without any further cause for concern; luckily all the staircases leading to the third floor remained in place. They entered the long corridors leading to the Gryffindor dorms and John appeared very pleased to be on ground that he knew didn’t move. They walked along in silence.

“Are those pictures moving?” John asked.

Celeste looked past Sherlock to see John staring wide-eyed at the portraits, and realized that he hadn’t seen any yet as there were none in the entryway leading to the main hall or in the hall itself, which were the only areas he had been in within the castle.

“They are,” Celeste confirmed.

John walked up to a portrait of a wizard sleeping behind his desk. “It’s—he’s breathing.”

“The portraits are depictions of actual witches and warlocks, enchanted to have the same characteristics as the person along with actual catch phrases they use,” she explained.

“They can talk?” John asked incredulously.

The wizard in the painting woke up and glared at John. “Keep your voice down, people are sleeping,” he stated angrily.

John apologized profusely before turning to run back to Celeste and Sherlock, who had continued down the hallway without him. 

They passed the rest of their journey without speaking; John staring wide-eyed at the portraits as Sherlock kept his focus ahead, apparently disinterested by his surroundings.

She stopped them in front of a portrait of the fat lady and turned to face John. “Your room is on the second floor, and the boy’s dormitories are to the right up the staircase.” She gave him a smile before turning to face the portrait.

Celeste peered at the sleeping woman closely, a faint memory stirring to mind. She hadn’t paid the portrait too much attention while following after the Gryffindor pranksters, but now that she had her full attention on her the woman in the portrait she remembered seeing her before. Did she know this woman from somewhere in her past? That was quite a long range, as she was millions of years old. And yet, the fat lady appeared so familiar. She stood still for a moment, trying to place her memory.

“Forgot the password already?” Sherlock scoffed.

Celeste ignored him and instead inspected the woman’s white dress and brown hair as the fat lady slept on, slightly snoring. Suddenly a name came to mind, though she still hadn’t placed the memory.

“Olga?” she asked.

The fat lady woke with a start and looked all around her in shock. “Who said my name? What do you want?” Her brown eyes focused in on Celeste in accusation.

“Brussel sprouts,” Celeste said sweetly, proud of the fact that she had correctly remembered the fat lady’s name.

“Oh, the password. Sorry, I must have been dreaming.” Olga's eyebrows furrowed in confusion as the portrait swung outwards for them to enter.

John’s eyes grew large as he peered inside of the Gryffindor tower. He glanced at the two of them for guidance.

“Don’t forget the password. We’ll see you tomorrow,” Celeste said, waving John onwards.

John turned to Sherlock, looking hopeful that they will indeed see each other again, but Sherlock didn’t pay him any attention. Celeste was remiss that even after being chased through the forest John still didn’t feel that the two of them were cemented as friends. It was quite apparent to her that John and Sherlock would be stuck at each other’s elbows for the rest of the year, even though they belonged in different houses. 

“Thanks for leading me here,” John said to Celeste, appearing a bit crestfallen that Sherlock hadn’t even acknowledged him.

“No worries.” Celeste dismissed the gratitude with a wave. “Your schedule for tomorrow and your supplies will all probably be on your bed, and I’m certain that we’ll have a class together sometime.” She offered him a smile. “Try not to be late for your first class, even though you won’t get much sleep.”

John frowned as he peered at his watch. It was completely covered with webs. His mouth opened into a huge yawn as he ripped away the gossamer strings and peered at the time. “Great,” he muttered once he saw how late it was. He stepped through the passageway.

Sherlock immediately turned and began heading away. Celeste rolled her eyes. Sherlock had no idea where the Ravenclaw dormitories were, and though he would probably be able to find them eventually, it would take him a few hours at least. She began following after him.

“Hold on, where are the two of you going?” The fat lady asked as she swung back into place. “It’s late and the both of you should be in bed.”

The two of them stopped to look back at the portrait, Sherlock fuming with outrage.

Before he could get a word in about how a portrait has no say in what he does, Celeste tried to reprimand things. “I’m sorry ma’am, but we were merely dropping off our friend. We’re on our way back to our tower,” she said in her sweetest tone..

“Your tower?” the fat lady accused sharply, her face turning red.

“Yes. Ravenclaw. Obviously,” Sherlock insulted. “Who else would have figured out your password so quickly?” With an abrupt turn he began striding down the hallway as if he knew precisely where he was going..

The fat lady sputtered in frustration as Celeste hurried back towards her to make amends. “I’m terribly sorry,” she apologized, “we actually asked one of the prefects for the password. John’s our friend and he wanted us to lead him back to his room because he had gotten lost, the prefect didn’t know we were Ravenclaw, I promise.”

Olga’s temper quickly diffused as she accepted Celeste’s lie. “That was nice of you, but from now you can’t know the password to the Gryffindor’s room.” The fat lady’s lips pulled into a pout. “And now I’m going to have to change it. Those poor first years aren’t going to appreciate that.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Celeste apologized. “But don’t worry about us. I promise that we won’t tell anyone.” She couldn’t quite place where Olga fit into her past life, but she knew that the woman had been kind to her while she was alive. It was only fair for her to return the favor.

Olga rumbled the front of her dress in an attempt to straighten it. “Fine. But I’d better not see you Ravenclaws on this side of the castle ever again.”

“Promise,” Celeste said.

She quickly turned to rush after Sherlock, knowing that she would have to lead him back to their dormitories, though watching him try to figure out where to go would be amusing. As soon as she joined his side he questioned her.

“How do you know the name of the woman in the portrait?”

That was a question that she could not answer. She had no idea how old the portrait was, or even whether or not her name was common knowledge. Who knew how many years it go it was when she had actually been with Olga while she was still alive. “What did you do while in the forest?” she asked instead, turning the question back to him.

He glared at her for a moment, his lips pursed. She smirked and pressed onwards down the dimly lit corridors, knowing that they now held each other at a checkpoint and that neither of them would budge. She wouldn’t answer him until he told her what he had been up to in the forest, and vice versa. Though, even if he did speak up, she wouldn’t be able to tell the truth.

Once they got to their portrait Celeste stopped and turned to peer at Sherlock. There was still a twig stuck in his hair, so she reached out to untangle it from his curls. He grabbed her wrist and kept her from touching him. “What are you doing?” he asked, outraged.

Celeste quickly dropped her hand. “You’re a mess, and I was just trying to help.” She awkwardly held her hands at her side, knowing that Sherlock didn’t approve of her trying to get the twig out of his hair.

His bow-shaped lips turned into a frown. “I don’t need your help.”

Celeste raised her eyebrow at him. If she hadn’t helped him and John to their rooms, they most likely would have been caught and expelled for breaking the only rule they had received that day. 

“If you say so.” She turned to the wooden door and grasped the eagle knocker and rapped it sharply. A voice suddenly came from the door, it was high and airy. 

“What is something that all can see but is only revealed to few?”

“A code,” the two of them responded simultaneously. Celeste turned to Sherlock, surprised that he had figured it out as quickly as she had. He was eleven, and she was, well, a lot older than eleven, and yet his brain worked as quickly as hers.

The door slowly swung open. Without a glance at her Sherlock purposefully strode into the Ravenclaw common room. The room was full of small alcoves containing plush chairs that would be comfortable to sit in while doing homework, the tables all at perfect heights surrounding the many chairs. Around the fireplace there was a large sofa, but other than that most of the chairs faced away from each other to offer the perfect studious atmosphere.

Sherlock quickly glanced all around him and then immediately began heading to the back of the room where there was a double pair of spiraling staircases.

“Yours is the one on the right,” Celeste clarified as she trailed after him.

The walls were a relaxing shade of blue that would project the light into every corner from the large windows spreading across the walls. The windows were currently hidden by long navy blue curtains that trailed to the floor. The only light in the room was coming from the small fire within the fireplace.

“Second floor. I know,” Sherlock responded haughtily. “All of the houses have similar dormitories and each year has the same floor throughout all of the houses; since Gryffindor’s first years are on floor two that’s the same floor we will be on.” His voice trailed after him as he stepped up the spiral staircase.

Celeste smirked. Sherlock indeed was very brilliant.

She made her way up the staircase leading to the girl’s dormitory. She had a long night ahead of her. She was incapable of sleeping. It was part of her whole immortality thing; being able to live forever, but forced into staying awake for every hour, month, year, and century of it. Time really dragged on for her, but it always seemed to flow better when she encountered interesting people. Such as Sherlock Holmes. He was an enigma that she wanted to crack, to find out what made him so brilliant. Frankly, having to spend the next seven years with all of the dull students didn’t look to promising, but Sherlock on the other hand would be an interesting prospect to investigate into.

A door blocked her entrance to the second floor dormitories. She lightly pushed it open to reveal a wide circular room. Five beds were spread evenly throughout the room, each of them next to a window and a dresser. The four-poster beds were draped by the royal blue colors of Ravenclaw, and in four of the beds were sleeping students. Silently closing the door behind her, Celeste lightly crossed over to the bed nearest the door. Her suitcase was plopped unceremoniously on the dark blue covers. She lifted it off the bed to set it on the floor, but it slipped from her grasp and landed with a crash.

She froze, her breath hitched in her throat as she watched the sleeping forms. The girl to the right of her bed twisted and groaned but remained asleep. She scanned the rest of the girls, who appeared to be sleeping heavily. Until her eyes focused in on the girl sitting across from her, who was staring at her, wide awake. 

Celeste offered her a wave, hoping that the girl would remain silent. In return, the girl blinked sleepily at her. Her long brown hair hung in rivulets around her face as she tilted her head to the side to narrow her eyes at her. She was the prefect’s younger sister.

“Sorry,” Celeste mouthed. She crouched down and opened up her suitcase. She pulled out her pyjamas and her wand before shutting her suitcase softly. After climbing back into bed she smiled shyly at the brown haired girl, who continued to watch her. Celeste promptly pulled shut the blue curtains all around her four-poster bed.

A sigh of relief escaped her lips now that she was in solitude. She changed into her pyjamas and shoved her robes at the foot of the bed. Now, all she could do was wait


	4. A Mix with Flour

John wasn’t sure exactly what he had expected to happen to Hogwarts, but his first night so far had been full with things he never in a million years have imagined occurring. And not all of it was because he had somehow made a friend with an insane person who tried to get them both killed on their first night at a new school.

It was an entirely new world for John. His one day journey through Diagon Alley with his mum wasn’t enough to prepare him for what he faced now. There was so much magic: the boats that moved on their own all the way to the school without anyone rowing them; the candles that floated above the table, shining down ethereal lights beneath the open sky. Frankly, the singing hat just topped everything strange and otherworldly that he had seen thus far. 

He quietly made his way up the spiral staircase to his room. It was extremely dark so he pulled out his torch and turned it on. The stone wall and steps looked extremely old, but there was no mold or dust. He giggled silently to himself; of course there wouldn’t be any signs of disrepair if magic could fix everything. At the end of the feast all of the leftover food and dishes had suddenly disappeared, so he figured that the same type of magic worked with cleaning the rest of the giant school. It was nearly impossible to believe that he was in an actual castle. With a bunch of witches and wizards. He shook his head at the ludicrous thought.

He opened the door to his room and shone his light on the floor. There were five beds, and four of them were filled with sleeping students. He made his way to the only available one and was pleased to find his suitcase and books resting on his covers.

“Magic,” he whispered in admiration. Unless someone had actually dragged his luggage to his bed, but it was much cooler to think that it had appeared there on its own.

He rummaged through his suitcase, searching for his pyjamas. He desperately needed a shower. He felt sticky all over and he was certain that scratches covered his body from racing through the branches. After finding what he was looking for he quietly left his room, shutting the door behind him.

The bathroom was downstairs. There was a row of shower stalls along the back, and he had the entire room to himself. He stripped slowly, the webs sticking to his body and his muscles feeling sore and tight. He discarded his robes on the floor and stepped into the shower. Luckily there were handles, he wasn’t sure what he would’ve done if he had to magically control the water pressure.

He let his thoughts drift over him as the warm water poured down his back. Following Sherlock had been a terrible, yet brilliant, idea. If he hadn’t gone, he wouldn’t be up so late covered in bruises and scratches and completely exhausted after nearly being killed. But then, Sherlock would have been killed by spiders, all alone in the forest. 

It had been extremely difficult to find out where Sherlock went in the dark woods. In fact, as soon as he entered the Forbidden Forest, he had no idea where the boy went. 

/He stood still, clenching and unclenching his right fist as he shone his torch around the eerie darkness with his left hand. A faint sound of twigs breaking and branches rustling came off to his left. It could be Sherlock. He trailed after the noise, straining his ears. His foot caught on a log and he tripped, sending himself sprawling into the dirt. He came to his knees and brushed the front of his robes off, when movement along the ground caught his eye. Shining his torch on the ground, his eyes widened when he saw a string of spiders scurrying onwards. 

He doesn’t like spiders. He’s not deathly afraid of them, but he’d rather avoid them whenever possible. His mum always made him kill the spiders she’d find in the house. He didn’t mind that too much. But knowing that he was surrounded by hundreds of tiny little spiders was not a comforting thought.

After being distracted by the spiders he had lost the sounds of Sherlock. Freezing in place, his heart rate had elevated to the point that it was the only thing he could hear. An itchy sensation crawled all over his body, and he realized standing still as thousands of spiders scurried past him was a bad idea. 

It clicked in his brain that maybe he was the one following the spiders. He shone his torch higher, and sure enough, there was a continuous string of spiders ahead of him. Sherlock had been heading that way—perhaps Sherlock was following the spiders as well. 

After coming to that realization John hunkered down and traced after the spiders, even though they freaked him out and the forest grew darker and more menacing. He needed to find Sherlock before something bad happened. The warnings from the headmaster had not been comforting in the least, and being alone in the woods was terrifying./

John scrubbed his hair and body with some of the liquid goop that was sitting in bottles on the wall. It was hard to believe that Sherlock had a suicide wish, but it certainly seemed like it when he saw him lying on his back about to be devoured by a spider. Wait, do spiders devour people? He scrubbed off webs from his face in thought. No, they’d most likely wrap their victims in webbing and then suck the blood from them. He shuddered, even though the water racing down his skin was blessedly hot. 

Once finished washing he turned off the water and dried himself off with a towel. He wondered what the next day would be like. It would be hard to beat today’s standard for the extraordinary. He wasn’t planning on heading back into the forbidden forest any time soon, he was sure of that. 

He was pretty eager to learn how to do magic. Especially how to do the light thingy like Sherlock did on the end of his wand. Or how to knock spiders away by saying a word with the flick of a wrist. Learning spells would probably be difficult for him, especially since he hadn’t grown up with magic, but he was determined that he’d be able to master anything he put his mind to. The next time Sherlock did something stupid that required him to intervene, he’d be prepared.

As he pulled on his pyjamas he heard somebody enter the bathroom. He desperately hoped that they wouldn’t notice the filthy, web-streaked and tattered robes he left in the middle of the bathroom. He cursed himself for his stupidity. There wasn’t a more obvious location for him to leave them. 

He poked his arms through his shirt as he heard the sound of the student using the loo. Exciting the shower quickly, he went straight to his discarded clothes. He wrapped them in his towel and held them tight to his chest, and without a second glance he strode towards the door.

“John?” His name was stretched into a yawn.

John froze, his hand on the door, and turned to look at who had caught him in the bathroom. Mike Stamford stumbled sleepily to the sink to wash his hands, his eyes squinting towards him. 

“Oh, hey Mike,” John said warily, realizing that he also was extremely tired. To say that he’d had a stressful day was an understatement. 

“I’m glad it’s you. I can’t see anything.” Mike leaned extremely close to the sink to stare at the faucets before he determined which was hot and which was cold. As he turned on the water he squinted at John. “You’re back late. I haven’t seen you since you left during the feast.”

John realized that Mike wasn’t wearing his glasses. That was a huge relief—he probably hadn’t noticed the state of his tattered robes.

“Um, yeah. I wasn’t hungry.” On saying that John realized that he was ravenous. He’d only eaten about half as much as he wanted to before he chased after Sherlock. 

Mike finished washing his hands and began drying them on a paper towel. “What were you doing? I haven’t seen you in the common room and you haven’t come to bed. Oh, by the way, we’re in the same room.” He threw away his rumpled paper towel and walked over to John.

John opened the door and began leading the way up the stairs to their bedroom. “Um... I went exploring.”

“Oh, good. Did you find out where all of our classes are? I get lost really easily so I might need you to lead me around.” Mike trailed his fingers up the stone walls as they ascended the stairs. Even with perfect eyesight John had a difficult time seeing because it was so dark.

John flinched. His exploring had been outside of the castle; he still had no idea how big the school even was. Exploring the inside of the castle sounded like a smart idea, a safe one that Sherlock might appreciate. If they ever hung out again. Sherlock hadn’t seemed to interested in him after he left with the Ravenclaw girl, though she had promised that they’ll see him tomorrow. 

“Actually, I’m pretty terrible with directions,” John said. It wasn’t necessarily a lie, but it wasn’t the most truthful answer he could have given either.

“Bugger,” Mike stated as they reached the room. He walked over to the bed nearest the door.

John crossed the room to his bed—it was the middle one in the circular room. Each boy had a desk and a window, and if they needed extra privacy John could see that you could pull the curtains down around the four-poster beds. 

“G’night,” Mike said as he crawled into his bed.

John shoved his decimated robes under his bed to hide them. “Night,” he said over his shoulder. He stood and slid off his suitcase and books from the bed and then crawled into the covers. As soon as his head hit the pillow he fell asleep.

\----------

The hours passed laboriously. Resting her head back against the pillows, Celeste shut her eyes and practiced her powers of legilimency. Stretching out her tendrils of magic, she floated through the easily penetrable dreams of the students around her. Uninterested by their simple thoughts, she moved subconsciously through the large castle. She wished she could stretch her thoughts beyond the castle walls, as she was rather fond of investing in politics and actually had quite a lot of fingers in different pies, so to speak. She had learned many things over the years, and one of those things was being able to influence a great amount of politics without anyone being the wiser that she had a hand in it. But, unfortunately, the spells around the school prevented her from using on legilimency on anyone outside of the castle walls. Even then, her powers would have been strained, as legilimency is most powerful when having eye-to-eye contact.

Instead she entertained by drifting through the dreams of the students within the castle walls. A few of them were quite entertaining. She found herself drifting over to the boy’s dormitory to focus in on Sherlock. She couldn’t quite name why she found herself so fascinated by him. He was rude and abrasive, and yet his intelligence was so vast. No eleven year old should be as smart as he was. She of course was an exception, but that was merely because she wasn’t actually eleven, that was just the form her body happened to be in. And turning into an eleven year old had not been a pleasant experience.

She winced at the thought. Honestly, if she had known that’s what would have happened when she had drank from the fountain of youth she wouldn’t have ever done it. She’d always been the same age; appearing somewhere in her thirties but capable of pulling off any age a decade younger or older. But, after being forced into drinking from the fountain, her age slipped away, leaving her as a ten year old child. Which was strange, but hey, the fountain promised youth, and she had certainly gotten it. If she hadn’t been immortal, she wondered what would have happened. Maybe it was a glitch and the results would be different for a regular mortal, but she wouldn’t be able to find out, seeing as the fountain was now destroyed.

After realizing that she was stuck as a child, she decided that she might as well pretend to actually be one. She had created the paperwork required, and a year later, she was now at Hogwarts. She wondered how long she’d continue growing. Once she reached her normal age, would she stop?

Finally she found Sherlock’s thoughts, but something was off. His thoughts were blurry and unclear. She flicked over to the dreams of the boy sleeping next to Sherlock, and the image of riding a dragon into a purple sunset came vividly into her mind. Quickly leaving that dream, she returned to Sherlock’s mind, but was unable to get a clear reading. Was he blocking her? Sherlock couldn’t possibly be capable of occlumency, could he?

Deciding to take matters into her own hands, Celeste slipped out of bed. Silently opening the door, she left her dormitory and descended the stairs, turning into a cat as she did so. The nearer she was to the person she would practice legilimency on, the more powerful the spell becomes.

Once back into the main lounge she crossed over to the boy’s staircase and leapt up the stairs. Reaching the second floor, she halted as she stared at the obstruction. The door was closed, and she didn’t have hands. Also, while in her animagus form, she was incapable of using spells. Twisting her head to side she searched for anyone else, but everyone had been in bed for a long time now. Deciding to take a risk, she turned back into her human form. Holding her head against the door to listen for any movement, she slowly turned the door handle and pushed it slightly open.

She quickly turned back into a cat, glad that she didn’t hear any signs of wakefulness on the other side of the door. Slipping inside, she blinked her bright blue eyes as she examined the sleeping bodies. The set up was the same as in the girl’s dormitory, the five beds spaced evenly around the room. Only one of the beds had all of the curtains closed around it; it was the bed nearest to the door on the right, in the same location as her own bed.

None of the sleeping students had thick dark curls resting on their pillows, so that left the curtained bed. Of course Sherlock would close it off to himself. She hopped onto it, pushing aside one of the curtains with her nose.

The fur on her back stood up straight when she was greeted by wide blue-grey-green eyes. Sherlock was wide awake, sitting on his bed cross-legged in his pyjamas with a book on his lap. His wand was tucked behind his ear and its tip was shining brightly.

Celeste froze as his eyes narrowed at her. Without any warning one of his legs shot out from beneath him and she suddenly flew back, kicked off the bed. Luckily, with her cat-like reflexes, she landed on all fours. That was unexpected.

She began to realize why his thoughts were so blurry. He had been awake, which was frankly ridiculous as he had been up so late. Did the boy ever sleep?

Circling his bed, she wondered how long she should wait before attempting to rejoin him. The thought suddenly came to her that she had an entire year to figure out everything about Sherlock. Maybe even several years. If she could smile while in this form, she would have.  
.  
.  
.

A warm tingling spread along the bottom of his foot. It was wet and coarse and his foot was unbearingly ticklish. Something was licking him.

“Stupid cat,” Sherlock said, kicking it off his bed once more. The small animal landed with a thud on the ground, and the dissatisfied hiss that came next made a groggy smile cross Sherlock’s lips.

He rolled over and sat up. Sporting a wide yawn he began rubbing his eyes, wondering how long he had slept for. He felt movement at the foot of his bed. He opened his eyes and glared at the white Siamese cat that peered back at him with wide, startling blue eyes. He had no idea where the animal came from or whose it was, and yet it had been in here practically all night. Cats were one of the pets they were allowed to bring. He had brought the most practical one, an owl, though it wasn’t really his choice. Mycroft made sure he had an owl, just in case he wanted to keep in touch. As if that was likely.

The cat probably belonged to one of his roommates. He scowled at it as it sat on its haunches and began licking its front paw, apparently affronted by Sherlock’s rude treatment of it. 

He sent another kick at the cat, but it aptly dodged. Grabbing his covers, he tried to trap it instead with the sheets but as he lurched forwards the cat jumped off of the bed. He cursed at it and planned to confront whoever owned it and set some rules down. He flung open the curtains around his bed and then paused. He blinked at the sight of empty beds. He was the only one in the room.

He reasoned that it was probably time for breakfast, but it didn’t matter to him that he had missed out on it. He slipped out of bed and crouched down on the floor next to his suitcase. The night before when he had pulled out his pyjamas he had strewn out all of his clothes in a haphazard manner, and it took him a while to find a clean pair of wizard robes. All the while the cat sat a few feet away and watched him with its piercing eyes.

The Ravenclaw insignia had etched itself into the right breast of his wizard robes. He scowled at it, not seeing why separating the students into different compartments was necessary. A blue tie had also appeared and was lying draped over his shoes. He glanced over at his intruder.

“Why’d you wake me up?” Sherlock complained to the cat. It blinked back at him.

He tossed his tie at the cat, but the animal leapt out of the way and made a noise as if it were laughing. He left his tie where it was, he wasn’t planning on wearing it anyways, and scooped up the rest of the clothes to head to the bathroom.  
.  
.  
.

 

After Sherlock left to get dressed Celeste decided that she should probably wake up John. She had waited as long as she could before waking Sherlock, knowing that he needed his rest, and during that time she had used legilimency to check on John and saw that he was sleeping heavily even through the noise of his rowdy roommates getting ready for the day.

She snuck out of the boy’s dormitory and lightly padded her way down the stairs. She was surprised at how long Sherlock had remained awake, but when he had finally fallen asleep it didn’t seem as though anything could wake him. No dreams entered his head; he had been completely out of it.

It didn’t take long at all for her to go down the two flights of stairs and cross through several corridors to make it to the Gryffindor dormitory. The hallways had all been empty as everyone had been in the great hall for breakfast, but once she turned onto the corridor leading to the fat lady’s portrait, she heard a loud commotion.

Students were screaming.

She raced forwards on all fours, her heart pounding. What was going on? Sliding to a halt next to the portrait, she listened to the sounds of students shouting from within the dormitory. Her tail twitched nervously as she waited for a student to exit. Olga was wearing an irritated expression as she also listened to the screams.

The portrait burst open with an indignant scream from the fat lady and a puff of flour shot into the air. Coughing students plastered with white powder raced through the portrait opening, led by no other than Wormtail. The short boy was covered in head to toe with flour, giving him a ghostly appearance as he doubled over near the doorway and coughed violently. Five students had followed after him, their shoulders and backs pelted with flour, but none of them were as targeted as Wormtail had been. As the last boy leapt through the doorway a puff of white exploded on the back of his head, accompanied by a high pitched laughter from within the dormitory.

Escaping notice, Celeste bounded into the room, only to be greeted by one of the strangest sights she had ever seen. Peeves the Poltergeist was flying around the room, cackling maniacally. In his thin arms he held dozens of small white circular objects. He grabbed the top one and tossed it across the room.

A boy completely covered in in white, like it was a second skin, jumped out of the way of the incoming missile. It exploded at his feet, sending a puff of flour into the air.

“Peeves!” the boy shouted angrily, “You’re only supposed to hit the first years!”

Celeste recognized that voice. She could hardly recognize the student beneath all of the white powder, but it was most definitely Padfoot.

“First years, smirst years! This is a lot more fun!” The poltergeist responded in a sing-song voice as he lobbed another flour bomb at the third-year.

“But that wasn’t our agreement!” Padfoot shouted as he dived out of the way. “You were supposed to do this outside of the great hall, not in our dormitory!”

Peeves let out a menacing cackle as he began throwing flour bombs at Padfoot with a wild furiosity. Deciding that the boy got what was coming for him, Celeste silently made her way through the lounge and attempted to avoid the flour spots the best she could. Just as she neared the foot of the stairs she was detected.

“A cat!” Peeves shouted gleefully, turning his full attention on her.

Without further ado Celeste leapt up the stairs and only marginally avoided the plume of flour that exploded in the spot she inhabited only a moment before. She streaked up the stairs in a flash and came to a halt outside of the doorway to the second floor. It was shut, and she could hear Peeves gaining on her as his irritating laugh echoed up the spiral stairs.

Desperate to avoid getting pelted, she scratched at the door and meowed loudly. Now was definitely not the time to turn back into a human, Peeves would be there any moment. She meowed louder, wondering how on earth John could possibly sleep through this racket.

Her eyes grew wide when she saw the poltergeist appear, his black hair streaked with white. His orange eyes glittered when he saw her and his fingers immediately wrapped around another bomb. A mendacious smile spread across his thick lips.

“Don’t worry little kitty, I won’t hurt you,” he said, his arm moving into the perfect throwing position.

She yelped out another meow and then the door suddenly lurched open, not a moment too soon. Dodging into the room, she narrowly avoided the plume of flour that exploded at John’s feet.

“Hey!” John shouted. He stuck his head out of the doorway to see who the culprit was and immediately a flour bomb pelted his face. He lurched backwards and slammed the door shut, his face covered with the white powder.

He turned to face Celeste, his expression completely stunned. His hair stood up on all ends and it appeared as though he had just woken up. His mouth opened as if to speak, and then he violently erupted into a sneeze, sending flour everywhere.

It’s extremely difficult to laugh as a cat, but at that sight Celeste was able to manage it. Her entire body convulsed and it was extremely awkward for her, but John glared at her as if he could tell what she was doing.

“What was that about?” John asked, not expecting an answer as he rubbed off the powder with his sleeve.

Celeste chortled silently to herself, though it probably appeared as though she were coughing up a hairball. She hopped up onto his unmade bed, the sheets all in a tangle. They were alone in the room, all of the students had already left, hopefully before Peeves started attacking them.

John continued to mutter under his breath as he picked up the abandoned robes off of the floor and cleaned his face. He let them drop and then searched through his suitcase for an extra pair of robes. After finding his clothes he dumped them on his bed and then paused, his attention drawn to Celeste.

She sat innocently on the edge of his bed and batted her eyes at him. He furrowed his brow and then extended his hand to pet her.

“What’s your name?” he asked as he scratched behind her ear.

Celeste purred as she pushed her head against his hand. John was certainly much nicer than Sherlock.

A chuckle escaped from John’s lips. “If you had answered my question I would have freaked, though I suppose if you’re a magical cat you might be able to talk.”

Purring louder, Celeste smirked to herself. Cats can’t talk, even when exposed to magic. However, this cat in particular could transform into a human girl. An immortal witch, on top of that, but she wouldn’t be sharing that secret with anyone.

John scratched harder, making Celeste feel absolute bliss. “What did you do to get a ghost so mad at you?”

Nothing, Celeste thought to herself. She was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. And Peeves is a poltergeist, not a ghost, as he’s capable of physically interacting with objects.

“I’ve never seen a ghost before, but that definitely looked like one. It was see through. And hovering.. I’m not sure I like ghosts.”

Dropping his hand, John turned away from her and went to the desk at the side of his bed. Celeste stopped purring, upset that he had stopped his ministrations. 

John bit his lip as he picked up his schedule and peered at it.

“Eight o’clock. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw first years... Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall.” He glanced around the room until he saw a clock. He suddenly jerked and threw his schedule back on the desk.

“I’m gonna be late!” he yelled as he frantically ripped off his pyjama shirt.

Oh, Celeste thought dumbly. She jumped off the bed and turned away from John as he changed. John was obviously comfortable enough to change in front of a cat, but she knew he wouldn’t do that in front of a fellow student, especially a female one. Giving him his privacy, Celeste stared forlornly at the door. Luckily she had already gotten ready for the day, but her bookbag was still in Ravenclaw tower, and she was going to be late even without having to travel all the way back to her dormitory. She should have waken up the boys a lot earlier instead of letting them sleep through breakfast.

It didn’t take long for John to finish. Flinging his book bag over his shoulder he ran to the door and then hesitated, his fingers clenching the handle tight. He stuck his ear to the door, waiting to hear for any signs of the poltergeist. He glanced at Celeste, his dark blonde hair sticking up all over the place.

Celeste could be an altruistic person when she wanted to. Not that she was exactly feeling prone to being selfless right at this moment, but John needed an escape plan. Dreading what Peeves had in store, she walked over to the door and scratched, waiting to be left out.

“Y’sure?” John asked her. As soon as the door opened, whoever emerged first would be the target. Unfortunately, that meant Celeste would be the one asking for a pelting of flour bombs. She wrinkled her nose at the thought, making her whiskers shiver.

John clenched his jaw and nodded his thanks at her. Which was frankly ridiculous, as he still thought her to just be a regular cat. However, her thoughts were interrupted as the door swung open.

She bolted out the door and ran straight into the line of fire. Peeves had been waiting outside of the door, apparently having no other targets, and as soon as he caught sight of her he let his missiles fly. Celeste dodged and twisted, avoiding the brunt force of attack as she raced down the stairs. Peeves cackled maniacally as he gave chase, luckily giving John a chance to escape.

Sprinting into the lounge area she ducked behind the couch as a plume of flour exploded all around her. She scrambled away, searching desperately for a safe hiding spot. Padfoot was nowhere in sight. Apparently he had taken his leave once Peeves had been distracted, locking the ghost inside of the Gryffindor common rooms. 

“Look at the itty bitty kitty running away!” Peeves sang happily as he threw more bombs at her.

Celeste dove behind a flower pot, which promptly exploded in a rain of soil and flour as Peeves lobbed a bomb with an extra amount of force. She felt bad for whoever entered the room next. It was a complete mess; the house elves had a huge task ahead of them. At least the poltergeist was locked in one place though, if he got out he would wreak havoc on the entire castle.

“Hey!” Peeves suddenly shouted, his attention drawn elsewhere.

Celeste watched in dismay as Peeves soared towards John, who was sprinting to the portrait. She chased after them, knowing that John was her only means of escape; she didn’t want to be trapped in the room with Peeves when she didn’t have hands to push open the portrait door.

Peeves threw a bomb at John. “First year, first year!” he shouted happily, glad to be fulfilling his mission.

John ducked, the bomb soaring over his head. He ran the last few feet and dove into the portrait, just as another bomb flew at him. It was a direct hit, landing in the center of his back with a powdery explosion. He pushed open the door and dove out.

Right at his heels, Celeste jumped through the passageway just as John slammed the portrait shut, thankfully trapping the poltergeist inside. He leaned back heavily onto the portrait with a sigh as Peeves’ indignant shouting emanated from within. Not taking a moment to lose, Celeste continued down the hallway at a fast pace, sending a glance back at John to see how he was faring.

He was apologizing profusely to the fat lady and attempting to wipe of flour from the painting, but failing miserably and instead spreading it all over her dress. Celeste chuckled to herself as she turned back and hurried on her way.

\---------

Sherlock absently roamed the empty hallway, not sure of where to go, though he found himself meandering his way to the grand staircase. Shifting his book bag to the side, he glanced down at the schedule he was holding and scanned the list until he found where he needed to be.

Ravenclaw and Gryffindor First Years... 8:00am... Transfigurations with Professor McGonagall.

Apparently the first years had no say in what classes they took, and instead were all grouped together with their houses. After Transfigurations he had Potions with Slytherin and then Charms with Hufflepuff. Perhaps in later years the students would be allowed a choice for which classes to take, but it looked like for now he was stuck with the rest of the Ravenclaw first years. He scowled at the parchment. That meant Celeste would be in every single class with him for the entire year.

The know-it-all blonde had already proven herself to be nosy and annoying. He hoped she would leave him alone, especially after he told her off the night before. He doesn’t need her help, though without her help in getting him back to his room safely he would have been expelled. Or worse, Mycroft would have found out about his trip to the forest.  
Not caring about crinkling the parchment, he slammed the schedule back into his bag between a few books. He entered the grand staircase area and peered over the side of the rail. Large marble staircases spread all the way down to the bottom floor, and when he looked up he could see that there were still two levels above him. Other staircases would be hidden throughout the castle, he was certain of it, but it seemed like this was the main passageway between classes. He would be sure to avoid it as much as possible when students were out of class, but for now it was completely empty.

Ravenclaw would be paired up with Gryffindor house a few times during the day—that meant he would run into John again. Trailing his fingers against the railing, he began descending the stairs. If he never showed up for class, then he wouldn’t have to deal with anyone, let alone John. The Gryffindor was like a lost puppy, constantly following after Sherlock and...protecting him. Honestly, John should have known better; if he hadn’t chased after Sherlock, then he wouldn’t have nearly been killed.

But then Sherlock would have died.

Sherlock’s feet felt like lead as they dragged down the stairs. He really didn’t want to have to go to class; he’d already read several of Mycroft’s books and had practiced several spells on his own. “Stupefy” had been one of the first ones he used on his older brother. Participating in mundane, vacuous conversation with a bunch of eleven year-olds sounded like torture. And then John would be there, giving him puppy eyes, begging to be Sherlock’s friend. Just because he happened to save his life. The arrogance of some people.  
The stairs evened out into the fourth floor landing. Halting at the edge, he watched with disinterest as the staircase below shifted through the air to silently slide into place in front of him. There should be a map on the schedule, or at least a room number, but there wasn’t any information for where his classes were located. The other first years had probably all been lead to their classes by their prefects after breakfast, but seeing as he skipped, he had no idea where to go.

He began his next descent, when suddenly a cat ran onto the stairs from the third landing. Sherlock froze in place, instantly recognizing it. He glared at the white Siamese cat as it took huge leaps, practically flying up the stairs. Its head turned to glance at him as it sprinted past, its blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

Sherlock turned to watch the cat that had tormented all night as it raced up the flights of stairs. It disappeared through the fifth landing, heading back to Ravenclaw house. Could it be running errands for its master, or was it just acting of its own will? It could be under a spell; that would explain its haste in returning to the dorms. He hurried down the steps to the third floor, determined to find out what the cat had been up to. At least this gave him something to do until he got caught roaming the hallways on his own.

The hallway on the third floor stood completely deserted, the long passageway ending abruptly at a T. Sherlock kept his attention focused on every detail as he strode across the wooden floor. The portraits stared down at him, though none of them spoke. He ignored them and instead razed his eyes across the floors where the cat would be able to reach.  
A faint white powder trail littered the ground, each small clump approximately the size of a paw. Whatever the cat had gotten into, it certainly helped his cause by leaving a trail. He crouched over as he neared the end of the hallway, trying to figure out what the powder was made of.

Suddenly a heavy weight crashed into him when he was just about to take the corner. Knocked off his feet, he fell onto his side and skidded across the floor, propelled by the force of the tackle. A student lay sprawled across him.

“Sorry!” the boy exhaled, obviously winded. Sherlock recognized that voice. He squirmed onto his back and pushed against the boy’s shoulders, their gaze connecting.

John’s striking blue eyes widened in recognition. His dark blonde hair stood in tufts all over his head, and there was a massive cowlick sticking up from the back. Strangely, the powdery white substance was on the tip of his nose and it spread across his right eyebrow, and there were clumps of it in his hair.

“Get. Off,” Sherlock huffed. He shoved hard on John’s shoulders.

John scrambled to get off of him, muttering a stream of rapid apologies. When they finally disentangled themselves, John rolled to his knees and kept his gaze down as a bright red blush flared up at the tips of his ears. He began picking up the mess that had exploded out of his book bag.

Sherlock rose to his feet and glowered down at the Gryffindor. He wasn’t hurt, other than a bit of wounded pride that he hadn’t seen John coming. No, there was a bigger issue here. He just couldn’t get rid of the boy. First, John stalks him on the train, and then later out of the castle, and now he literally throws himself at him. Something must be seriously screwed up in John’s head—no one wanted to spend time with Sherlock. Instead of chasing after him, people always ran in the opposite direction.

Not bothering to offer any assistance, Sherlock merely straightened his own book bag, which had remained intact through the violent assault. He watched as John scurried over a few feet to pick up a quill that had broken in half. A huge white clump of powder on the center of John’s back drew his attention.

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked.

Having picked up the last object, John sat back on his knees as he gloomily held up his broken quill. “An utter disgrace.”

Sherlock took a step forwards. “No; this.” He leaned down and wiped his finger against the back of John’s robe. John looked up at Sherlock as the tall boy held the powder to his nose and inhaled. It didn’t smell like drugs, and Sherlock had done plenty of testing on several kinds. All within a laboratory, under the ever watchful care of his horrendous older brother, of course. He’d never actually ingested any, though it didn’t mean he wasn’t curious. Tentatively, Sherlock swiped his tongue over his finger.

“Flour.” Sherlock crinkled his nose at the taste. Of course it wouldn’t be anything more dangerous than an ingredient found in everyday kitchens. Though flour could prove to be rather combustible when its particles dispersed evenly throughout the air and were given enough heat. Such a scenario would provide a rather nice explosion. He might have to test that someday, it should be simple enough to do.

However, John probably didn’t have blowing things up in mind when he became covered by flour. First off, the stocky Gryffindor couldn’t possibly have put it on his back himself. The spread across the robe pointed to the fact that the flour had been thrown at him. It was the same sort of pattern that dirt made when Sherlock threw clumps of it at Mycroft and messed up his brother’s impeccably clean clothing.

John continued to look up at Sherlock, a bemused expression crossing his face. Without speaking his mind, he turned his attention away as he gently placed the quill into his book bag, the precaution worthless as the damage couldn’t get any worse.

“Who threw this at you?” Sherlock asked as he wiped the rest of the flour off onto his trousers.

“Um...” John furrowed his brow in concentration. “A ghost, I think.” He stood up and slung his book bag over his shoulder.

“Impossible,” Sherlock said. “Ghosts can’t interact with objects.”

“But it floated. Off the ground.” John held up his hand how high the ghost was floating. “And it was see-through.”

“A poltergeist then.” Sherlock stared at the flour spread across John’s eyebrow, debating on whether or not to inform him of it.

John looked confused. “Right.” He reached his hand behind his back and attempted to swipe at the mess, but wasn’t able to reach it properly. “Why would it want to throw a flour bomb at me?”

Sherlock shrugged. He wasn’t an expert on poltergeists, though he knew they liked to torment people. He stepped past John into the intersection and glanced to his right and his left, noting that they were completely alone. He had no idea where his class was, though he could see a span of doors in either direction. John’s dormitories were off to the left and through a few other hallways.

With a huff, John gave up on fixing his appearance and joined Sherlock in the intersection. “D’you know where Transfiguration is?”

Sherlock shut his eyes. Great. He was stuck with John Watson and neither of them knew where to go. He let out a long sigh. It was a massive case of déjà vu.

“Hey,” John said defensively. “Just because you’re a bloody genius, it doesn’t mean that I’m stupid. I left my schedule in my room and I forgot to look where the classroom’s at.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at John to his left. John’s jaw clenched and his arms folded protectively across his chest.

“The classroom’s location wasn’t on the schedule,” Sherlock said with distaste.

“Then where is it?”

Sherlock hated admitting when he was ignorant. If he had gone to breakfast, he wouldn’t have had this problem. Or, if the professors weren’t all insolent idiots, they would have added a map to the schedule and let the students know where their classrooms were. “I have no idea.”

Shock flashed across John’s face. “Oh.” He looked down at his feet and relaxed his posture.

“I’m going exploring,” Sherlock declared as he took a right and began heading down the hallway.

John hurried after him. Was he incapable of taking a hint? Sherlock didn’t invite him to follow along, but apparently John found it his mission to do just that.

“Just...” John said as he fell into step beside him, his short legs working double time to keep up with Sherlock’s long stride. “Stay inside of the castle this time. I don’t want you to, you know, almost get killed. Again.”

A sly smirk spread across Sherlock’s lips. “There’s plenty of things contained within this castle that would be more than willing to kill students like us.” He glanced over to his shorter counterpart.

Disbelief clouded John’s face. “Inside? Like, where all of the students are?”

“Undoubtedly.” Sherlock realized that John probably had no idea about the death of several students thirty-one years previously. “Haven’t you heard about all of the murders?”

They passed by a large wooden door that was shut firmly. Sherlock could barely make out the sound of talking students coming from within. He could peek in and see if it was his class, or ask for directions, but he decided against it. Tormenting John was much more fun.

“Murders?” Fear began to creep into John’s voice.

“Several. All ghastly.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together in excitement as he continued down the hallway. “No one knows what caused them, but I intend to find out.” Granted, there hadn’t been any student deaths since the Chamber of Secrets had been opened, but Sherlock was determined to find its location and learn what type of monster had been unleashed.

“Where are you two going?”

Sherlock froze. His day couldn’t get any worse. He turned slowly to see Celeste at the intersection between the hallways.

“Uh...” John stammered. He looked to Sherlock for assistance.

“It’s none of your business,” Sherlock said harshly.

“Fine,” Celeste said with a shrug. “I’m just on my way to class.” She began walking towards them. “I think it’s better to arrive late rather than not show up at all,” she said as she stopped outside of the doorway they passed.

“Is that Transfigurations?” John asked, pointing at the door.

Celeste tilted her head to the side as she looked at John, her long blonde hair falling over her shoulder. “For being lost you two managed to get very close to where you needed to be.” She pushed the door open with her hip. “Coming?”

John shifted his book bag on his shoulder and then followed after Celeste. Sherlock let out a long sigh before trudging after them. There was no point in roaming the halls on his own, especially now that he knew where he was supposed to be.

Heads swiveled to stare at them as the three of them entered the room. The first years’ furrowed brows and lips curled downwards revealed their impatience. They must have been kept waiting for them, which Sherlock thought was frankly preposterous, seeing as he might not have shown up at all.

To his dismay, there were no empty seats in the back. The only available seats were in a row, all the way in the very front of the classroom. The trio began their silent avant-garde, the condemning eyes of their fellow classmates watching every step. He could see no professor, but there had to be one present; there could be no other reason behind the perspicuous silence.

His eyes alighted on the solitary cat sitting stiffly on the desk. The silver tabby had dark markings around its eyes as if it were wearing glasses. Professor McGonagall is an animagus, Sherlock realized. He slid into the seat beside John and set his book bag on the table before leaning as far back as he could, keeping his gaze on his professor.

“Where’s the profess—” John’s question was cut off as the tabby suddenly leapt from the desk and transformed into a woman.

Long black robes draped over Professor McGonagall’s body, and her pointed witches’ hat partially concealed the impossibly tight bun of brown hair. She stared down at the three of them through the spectacles at the edge of her nose.

“You’re late.” Her voice dripped with menace, but it was no match for her scathing gaze that bore into the three of them.

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and nonchalantly caught her glare. He didn’t care if he got punished, there really wasn’t anything these teachers could do to him that would elicit obedience from him.

“We got lost,” John bravely spoke up, finally figuring out how to use his mouth after leaving it gaping open during her transformation.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John might have gotten lost, which really was an impressive feat seeing how close they were to his dorms, but Sherlock always knew exactly where he was—though he might not have known where he was going.

“Then why didn’t you consult your map?” she asked condescendingly.

“What map?” John asked.

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips for a moment. “Did any of you attend breakfast?”

John and Celeste solemnly shook their heads as Sherlock defiantly continued to stare up at her, not moving a muscle.

“Let me see your schedule.” She held out a hand to John.

John stared at her blankly for a moment before sheepishly turning to look at Sherlock. Sherlock completely ignored him. Narrowing his eyes at him, John reached for Sherlock’s bag and began rummaging through it. When he finally found it, John triumphantly withdrew the crumpled parchment.

McGonagall clicked her tongue as she accepted the schedule, holding it between two fingers with distaste as if it contained an infectious disease.

“I can see that you take appearances highly,” she said as she withdrew her wand from her sleeve.

John frowned and clenched his fingers. At least he had a schedule, Sherlock thought smugly. Now John would owe him a favor.

“Speaking of which,” she continued, looking down at John, “What is that on your face?”

John furrowed his brow in confusion before wiping his face with his sleeve. He held out his arm in front of him and saw the flour streak across it. “Flour,” he said, wiping his face again.

“And how did that substance get there?” McGonagall asked in exasperation.

“It was thrown at me. By a ghost.”

“—Poltergeist,” Sherlock and Celeste said simultaneously. The professor glanced between the two of them before turning her attention back to John.

“Why would a poltergeist throw flour at you?”

John shrugged.

McGonagall stared at John for a long moment as she debated what to say next. Apparently opting to not investigating the topic any further, she pointed her wand at the blank side of the parchment, successfully changing the subject. “Map,” she said clearly, tapping the schedule. Black ink spread across the parchment, forming into lines that gave a basic outline of the castle. “All you have to do is point and say where you want to go, and the map will guide you.” She tapped the parchment with her wand again. “Transfiguration,” she said, over enunciating her consonants.

Sherlock finally looked away from her and stared at the map. Thick black lines crudely drawn depicted the layout of the third floor, and it didn’t even appear as if the image was set to scale. Transfiguration was scrawled inside one of the boxes, and a small golden dot shone just beneath the lettering indicating their location. 

“If you had gone to breakfast—which I suggest for you to do for the rest of the term—you would have learned how to use your map.” The professor placed the parchment map-side up in front of John before turning to face the rest of the class.

“Now that we are all here,” she sent a scalding glance at the three of them before continuing. “We are going to talk about what you will be expecting to learn from this class. Transfiguration is a very systematic, exact magical discipline. It works best for the scientifically-inclined mind, and as such it is deemed very hard work.”

Sherlock droned her out as he examined the map. Certainly they could have come up with a better quality specimen, this one appeared as though it were created by a first year. He could probably make a better one, as soon as he learned how to. He’d have to visit the library and research what spells were required.

Leaning back and closing his eyes, Sherlock planned out an extremely detailed and meticulous map of his own. It would require him to explore the entire castle, during which he’d find all of the hidden passageways and rooms that he knew existed. The passage of time was completely lost to him as he planned out what he’d explore first.

A thunderous noise of shuffling papers and bags drew him back to the present. After a quick glance around him he realized that all of the students were withdrawing their wands. He dug into his bag and took out his own: a twelve inch stick made of willow. Black, perfectly straight and extremely springy, it was a powerful wand with dragon heartstring at its core. He set it on the table and glanced over at John.

A parchment covered with copious, messily scrawled notes lay in front of John. Sherlock hadn’t even realized that they needed to take notes, he had been so enthralled within his own mind palace. When John put his own wand on the table, Sherlock noticed that his fingers were covered in black ink. Glancing over at John’s ink bottle, Sherlock smirked when he saw the broken quill completely sunk inside of it. He snatched up John’s wand.

“Hey,” John whispered indignantly. He reached for it but Sherlock easily dodged and began flexing the wood. It was a short, about nine inch long wand, most likely made of rosewood. Thick and unyielding, the wood hardly bent as Sherlock pulled at it.

“Give it back,” John whispered fervently, reaching for it again.

“Is there a problem?” Professor McGonagall said, turning away from the blackboard to stare through her spectacles at them.

Wrenching his wand back, John gently placed it on the table. “No, ma’am.” He shot a glare at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slumped back in his seat.

“Good.” McGonagall nodded briskly before turning back to face the board. “Now, before you use your wands, there are still a few things we need to go through...”  
The rest of her sentence didn’t even register in his mind as Sherlock caught sight of Celeste’s wand. It lay neatly beside her stack of parchment as she bent over her notes, her blonde hair obscuring her face. Her wand practically glowed, begging him to examine it. He risked a glance at the professor, whose back was facing them. John busily attempted to withdraw his quill from his ink bottle. Sherlock reached over him for the wand.

“Hey!” John objected, keeping his voice down. He protectively covered the bottle and pulled it to his chest, unwilling to see it spilled.

Sherlock’s fingers clenched around the white wand and he quickly snatched it back, completely escaping Celeste’s notice. John glared at him for a moment before setting his ink bottle down and resuming his fishing.

Sherlock triumphantly examined the wand. It was rock hard, completely smooth and pure white. It almost looked as if it were made of ivory, though he knew that was impossible as wands had to be made of wood. The handle had an intricate design etched into it, though he couldn’t make heads or tails of the symbols. It was about eleven inches long, thin and almost deadly looking. He trailed his fingers down the shaft, and was surprised when he couldn’t feel any of the grains of the wood—it was as smooth as glass.

Celeste finally glanced up from her notes and noticed that her wand was missing. Instantly looking over at him, she raised an eyebrow at the sight of her wand. Sherlock twiddled the wand between his fingers, purposefully irritating her while feeling for the balance of the wand. He glanced over at John, who had finally grasped the end of his quill. His tongue stuck out in concentration, John slowly and carefully withdrew the quill from the ink bottle.

“Mr. Holmes,” McGonagall suddenly said, her tone so menacing that it would completely shatter any lesser student’s disposition. “Where are your notes?”

Slowly turning his head, Sherlock saw that the space on the table in front of him was completely devoid of any note taking materials. His book bag had been pushed back in front of him to allow room for John’s parchment, and his wand lay beside it. He boldly made eye contact with the professor.

“I don’t need to take notes,” Sherlock said honestly. Even though he hadn’t paid any attention to what she was teaching, he knew that he didn’t miss anything. He’d already read all of Mycroft’s books and had stored all of the information inside of his mind palace.

McGonagall’s lips puckered, making it look like she was sucking on a particularly tart candy. “Oh?” she asked. “Then you can tell me what the Avifors spell does?”

Sherlock glanced at the board but didn’t find that particular spell written among the equations and random tidbits of information about the science of transfiguration. He absently ran his fingers across the wand as he searched his mind. “It transforms small objects or statues into birds,” he quoted.

McGonagall’s green eyes blinked once. “And what happens if a transfiguration spell is done improperly?”

These questions were too easy. “The object can become half-transfigured or permanently stuck in one state,” Sherlock said, letting his boredom seep into his answer.

McGonagall appeared offended that Sherlock had gotten the correct answer. “Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” she said haughtily. “I hope you take it seriously, Mr. Holmes.” She pointed at the wand he held between his fingers. “Now is not the time to be fiddling with your wand. Set it aside and take out a piece of parchment for notes.”

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Sherlock set down Celeste’s wand in front of him. “Haven’t I proved to you that taking notes is an unnecessary trial for me?”

“Then trial it shall be,” McGonagall said, her voice stern and unrelenting.

Glaring up at her, Sherlock reached into his bag and withdrew a piece of parchment. He smoothed it out on the table and then took out a quill and ink bottle, even though he had no intentions of actually taking notes.

“Are those your materials?” she asked, eyeing his bag.  
“Yes,” Sherlock muttered.

“I was under the impression that this bag belonged to Mr. Watson.” She turned her smoldering gaze to John. “Is this your bag?”

“No ma’am,” John said, clenching his fingers around his broken quill so that she couldn’t see it.

“I see.” McGonagall walked up to their table and pointed her chalk at the crumpled piece of parchment. “And this schedule belongs to...”

“M—” Sherlock began.

“—I let him borrow it,” John interrupted, kicking against Sherlock’s leg to keep him quiet. Sherlock turned to glare at him and kicked his ankle.

“And then you took it back again without asking?” McGonagall asked, not seeing the exchange.

“Y-yes,” John stammered, wincing in pain. He tucked his legs beneath his chair.

“One characteristic of the House of Gryffindor is chivalry, which you do not seem to possess, Mr. Watson. As your Head of House, I am very disappointed in you.”

John bowed his head in apology.

Satisfied by his act of contrition, McGonagall turned her back to him and returned to the chalkboard. Sherlock immediately snatched up Celeste’s wand once again.

There wasn’t much else to learn about the wand. It looked ancient, like the wood could have been petrified, but he wasn’t sure that was even possible. Wands were semi-sentient, made out of living trees and capable of choosing their owner. How could a petrified piece of wood, dead and wizened by age, be able to perform magic? Unless he asked Celeste, he wouldn’t know for sure what it was made of, or how she had gotten a hold of it. It didn’t look like one of the wands from Ollivander’s.

“Sherlock...” Celeste whispered, holding out her hand.

Shaking his head at her, Sherlock continued holding onto the ancient wand. John glared at him for a moment before looking back at the board where McGonagall was writing out an equation, apparently deciding not to get into the middle of it. Holding the ink covered quill in his blackened left hand, John carefully began taking notes.

Celeste’s eyes bore into him. Finally, Sherlock moved to hand her wand back, but his sleeve got caught on John’s ink bottle and knocked it over. Ink spilled all over John’s parchment, completely ruining all of his notes. John jerked his arm, sending the wand flying out of Sherlock’s grasp. The three of them watched as the wand clanged across the floor, disappearing from sight as it rolled beneath the professor’s desk.

McGonagall froze at the noise, her back stiffening as she held up her chalk. Slowly she turned, her glare attempting to raze the two of them. Her lips pursed when she saw the spilled ink. “Are you two completely incapable of keeping to yourselves and not disturbing the class?”

Sherlock stared down at his wand in an attempt to appear as disinterested as possible.

“Detention. Both of you.” Her voice was harsh and unrelenting.

It wasn’t his fault, Sherlock thought irately. John was the one who knocked the wand into the air and caught McGonagall’s attention. Now he was going to be stuck with him again.

“I expect you here after your last class today,” she continued.

John turned to face Sherlock, his face turning red as his hand balled into a fist. Sherlock stared at him blankly, knowing that John didn’t want to cause a scene and risk the wrath of the professor. Sure enough, John irately clenched his jaw shut, and did nothing besides fume as he tried to keep himself from throwing a punch.

“Pick up your mess,” McGonagall said as an afterthought as she turned back to face the board.

John glanced back at his ruined parchment, steam practically rising out of his ears when he realized how hopeless his assignment was. Celeste leaned over and whispered into his ear. Sherlock couldn’t hear what she said, but once she was finished John gave her a perplexed look before reaching down to dig through his book bag on the floor. With John out of the way, Celeste quickly snatched up Sherlock’s wand and gave him a look that read “don’t even think about it.”

Sherlock scowled at her as he expectantly held out his hand. John re-entered the picture, glancing between the two of them as he set down the upper half of his quill on the table. Celeste pointed Sherlock’s wand at McGonagall’s desk.

“Accio wand,” she said quietly. The wand suddenly went flying through the air and landed gracefully in her outstretched hand. With a smug smile, she turned to Sherlock and handed back his wand.

Sherlock took it with a scowl. Celeste just preformed a fourth-year level spell like it was nothing.

“Woah,” John said quietly.

Celeste pointed her strange wand at the spill zone and began muttering incantations under her breath. Slowly, the ink began moving across the parchment, leaving behind John’s messy scrawls as the rest of the ink slithered back into the bottle. No first year should be capable of preforming such an advanced spell, Sherlock thought irritably. John however, wasn’t concerned at all that Celeste was showing talent well beyond her years as his mouth gaped open in awe as he watched the now filled bottle right itself. Celeste reached over and grabbed the point of the quill and connected it to the top half where the feather was located.

“Reparo,” she whispered. The quill immediately reconnected itself.

“Thanks,” John said, his anger quickly diffusing. He picked up his repaired quill and stared at it in awe.

“What is so fascinating, Mr. Watson?” McGonagall asked.

John jerked his hand down. “Nothing.”

What a harpy, Sherlock thought as he glared up at the professor. She doesn’t see Celeste preform advanced level magic, but she turns around just in time to see John looking like an idiot. Typical. If this is what the rest of the school year was going to be like—him constantly being thrown together with John, Celeste being a know-it-all, and the professors being ignorant tyrants, then he desperately wished he never got his letter to Hogwarts.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a lot of fun to write! Celeste is my own character- I do this weird thing where I put my own character into all of the different fandoms I fall in love with. That being said, I got bored creating new characters for each fandom, so I created one that would be able to be in them all. (Weird, I know.) Basically Celeste is immortal and is a fixed point of time that continues to live through each alternate universe, therefore able to be shoved into all of my favorite universes. She's basically a mix of the Doctor and Mycroft Holmes- constantly ending up just where she needs to be while also being secretly behind everything, (more than just running the British government.)
> 
> I also had the brilliant idea of wondering what it would be like for Sherlock to finally meet his match in intelligence who affects him more than Mycroft, Irene Aldler, or Moriarty. Someone who would grow up with him, and possibly even mentor him to be the extraordinary brilliant genius we all know and love him as. That's where Celeste comes in.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and if there are any mistakes or things I could edit a bit any advice will be very appreciated!


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